Spirit Fall
by hionlife
Summary: Possession and evil spirits are only the beginning. How much will it take for John to realize that Sam and Dean are what's most important? Preseries, AU.
1. A Man Possessed

Spirit Fall

Summary: Eight years before the Asylum, the Winchesters have thier first encounter with possesion. Evil spirits may turn out to be the least of thier problems though.

A/N:BIG thank you to my beta, chocolate rules! Hope ya'll like it. Let me know what you think, good or bad. :)

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John Winchester should know, better than anyone, how five minutes could change the course of a life.

John Winchester should know, better than anyone, that _thirty seconds_ can change the entire course of a life.

And John Winchester should _really_ know, better than anyone, not to wander around a house that's known to be haunted by a truly evil spirit, alone.

But he does it anyway.

He leaves the boys on the first floor of the old farmhouse and jogs up the rotting stairs for a quick, five-minute survey. There's nothing going on though. The rooms are quiet and still, filled with moldy furniture and dust and nothing else. No EMF readings, no smells or sounds, or anything. He's about to go back downstairs and tell Sam and Dean it's a bust when something icy and hot grips at the back of his neck, shooting down his spine like an electrical charge.

Electrocution, now there's something he hopes to never experience.

He spins around but the hall behind him is empty and the EMF detector still reads zero. There is a shift though, a wild charge that dances in the air and he doesn't need any kind of gadget to sense it after so many years in the business. He turns back toward the stairs, gripping the smoothly worn railing, to call Sam and Dean up, but as soon as he opens his mouth something else rushes in, warm and thick and heavy, hits the back of his throat and plunges down to his guts, like puking in reverse. There's no time to choke or call out as the spirit expands inside of him, flooding out to his fingers and toes and tingling up to his brain.

All these years, and he's never really been possessed, none of them have, but there isn't a doubt in John's mind now that that's exactly what's happened. Considering all that he's read and seen it's not what he expected. Just tingling and numbness, even as his body moves down the stairs and he knows he should be feeling something.

And then Dean comes around the corner, followed closely by Sammy, to meet him at the bottom of the staircase. The feelings come on so suddenly that he scarcely has a chance to recognize them. There is a burning itch, fiery in his chest so strong, hatred he's only felt once before and never ever towards his children. He fights the impossible urge to vomit because you can't feel like this when looking at the only things you love in the world, your own two children.

And it's then that John realizes these feelings aren't his. His body isn't his. They belong to the ghost, a gentleman named Arthur Wellington that slaughtered his entire family two hundred years ago with a wood ax and hung himself in the well out back when he was done. Well, shit.

"Did you find him?" Dean asks. The shotgun he'd been holding drops loosely to his side, relaxing now because Dad is here. Dad takes care of everything. John can see that trust in his sons' eyes now, perhaps the undoing of all of them, and again, he swallows bile as 'his' mouth moves, lips curve into a smile.

"Yea," his voice says. "I found him."

But this ghost isn't that good. They see that something is off, _thank God_, and Dean takes half a step forward as Sam takes half a step back.

"Everything okay Dad?" Dean asks.

"Fine," John's mouth smiles and John feels his confidence bolster at how bad this guy is messing up. His boys can so handle this. And if the smiling doesn't tip them off, he doesn't know what will.

Dean's brow furrows in confusion and he glances back at Sam. And then John's body is moving. He sees his arm before he feels it, but it's too late and too impossible to stop. It's like watching a bad movie as Dean's head cracks back to the left, but the bruising blow he sees delivered by his own fist is only a breath of wind on his knuckles. Dean stumbles away and Sam yells out, but the world is fading and the inconceivable rage is blinding.

Everything goes white and gray, blurring at the edges like an underwater cartoon and then he can't see anything at all. It's dark and white, but he can hear them still, like being in the next room over, listening to a lover's spat through thin walls. Except these are his kids and he's certain a weak sucker punch was only the beginning of Arthur Wellington's warpath. He imagines dismembered limbs and armless hands littering the foyer and panics, trying to remember what sort of weapons he'd been carrying. He pushes at the walls, searching for a weakness or a crack, but this ghost has him locked up good in his own mind and there's no way out that he can see.

The muffled fight rings in his ears. There's a creak and a crash, something breaks and someone, maybe him, yells something about death. That doesn't mean anything though, not if his kids are hurting by his own hands. There's pressure, in his guts, and for a moment John can't breath. The wind is knocked out of his lungs and he cheers for his sons.

_Beat me. Hurt me. Kill me. _

The victory is short lived though. Even in the calm, blind space of his head, he can tell when the fight turns in his, no, in the spirit's favor. There is a thudding noise that he can't place, the creaking of splintering wood, Sammy's cries and Dean's frantic shouts. The spirit inside of him laughs at the desperation of it all and John shoves back again, willing the thing out of his brain.

_Get out. Get out. Stop. Stop…please._

And then, miraculously, the fog begins to clear. Sam's voice speaks clearly through the haze. The world fades back into color and blinks into focus. John drops to his knees, swallowing the vomit that rises in his throat. He's in the archway to the front room now. Sammy stands across the foyer from him, edging up the first few steps with the cleansing ritual in hand and blood running from his now crooked nose. Dean stands defensively in front of him, attempting to steady the shotgun, muzzle not two feet from John's face, with his weaker left hand. The right is bruised wildly and hangs limp at his side.

John gazes down at his own hands. Smeared blood on the back of his palms and blistered knuckles that are sure to swell and bruise. He did this. His own hands.

He leans forward on the dusty floor and retches, harshly expelling the rest of the evil along with his lunch.

--------------------

They have to go to the ER, just to have Dean's arm set, because no matter how much first aid John has done,you don't mess around withbroken bones. They swing by the motel first though, to clean up and drop off Sammy. A million apologies go unspoken as John explains that the hospital staff will have enough questions without him dragging in _two_ bruised children. It's hard to understand though, even for a thirteen year old genius, and Sam screams at him.

"No! No! I'm going. You hurt him. You did this!"

John holds off Sam's weak blows, mindful of the cuts and bruises that splatter the thin arms and chest. He waits, head bowed, for his son to calm, but an angry Sammy, even injured, has the energy and ferocity of a rabid cat. A well-placed kick to his shin has John cursing.

"Sam! Damn it. Knock it off." He bows to Sam's level, grips his son's shoulders tightly, and tips his head to talk into Sam's ear. "I'm sorry, Sammy. Okay? But you have to stay here and don't pretend like you don't understand why. I need to take care of your brother and the longer you fuss about it, the longer he's going to hurt. Got it?" It's harsher than intended, but he needs to be understood. Sam nods against his shoulder and pulls away to stand stiffly next to the bed.

"We'll be back soon. You know what to do," he offers on his way out the door.

In the car, John tries to talk to Dean. He has to explain about the possession, about the spirit. He has to make him understand that wasn't really him, he didn't have any control and as long as Dean understands, John is certain Sam will too. From his experience though, broken bones hurt like a mother and Dean just stays slumped in the passenger seat, uncharacteristically quiet before turning to John with a tired smile.

"I get it, Dad," he says. "But can we do this later?"

"Sure." John nods weakly. "Later."

--------------------

The ER is surprisingly calm for this time of night and they're taken back almost immediately. They're almost home free, the fake IDs work beautifully and the doctor, a dark haired, stocky young man, seems to accept the story about football in the backyard.

Kids, don't you know, not as durable as they seem.

But then they cut away Dean's shirt to set the bone and John himself is shocked at the amount of bruising. The past few weeks had been particularly rough, but he didn't think so much so as to cause the spots of blue, yellow, purple and pink that cover his eighteen-year old son. Some old, some brand new and John shoves his hands in his pockets too late as the doctor takes in his bleeding knuckles with a critical eye. The man shares a knowing look with the nurse before she nods and moves toward John with outstretched hands.

"Mr. Winchester, would you like to wait outside?" She smiles sweetly, but it's clear she doesn't mean it as a question as she pushes the door open and guides him out.

"I want him to stay."

He's already half way out the door when Dean argues the nurse's actions.

"What?" he asks and Dean looks up to meet his eyes, determined.

"I want—I want you to stay. Here," he says, not pleading or asking. Just saying it. Dean knows as well as anybody that the doctor wants to get John out of the room so he can press him about the bruises and frankly, John can't blame his son for wanting to avoid that interrogation. John smiles politely and shrugs his way past the nurse, back to the bed.

"Whatever you want, son."

They ask the questions anyway though. Where'd the bruises come from? How'd he break the arm again? What about these scars? These bruises? Mr. Winchester, you really should wait outside.

When Dean is good and relaxed and maybe even asleep under the pain medication though, John knows his continued presence will only cause more suspicion than not and he reluctantly follows the doctor out into the hall where the man, Dr. Haubstadt, informs him that it would be best if Dean stayed the night.

"For a broken bone?" John asks.

The doctor shrugs.

"It's not uncommon. He can rest more comfortably here and we'd just like to make sure everything is…okay." He smiles politely, clearly not intimidated by the man in front of him, and John returns a tight grin.

"Everything is okay, isn't it doc?" he asks, tilting his head naively.

"Sure," the doctor replies without missing a beat. "Medically, your son is fine."

"Medically?"

"Well, I really can't say otherwise." He smiles sarcastically. "Seems like he's getting beaten up an awful lot, you know, _playing football_." The doubtful inflection isn't missed and John smirks at the young man, most likely from a white-collar family. Just out of eight years of med school and hardly worked a day in his life.

"It's a rough game," he smiles.

"No kidding," the doctor frowns. "I played eight years, high school and college. Never broke a bone like that though. Never bruised so much either."

"Huh." John nods. "You know what, doc? I always do have respect for a man that says what he means." Dr. Haubstadt's face darkens.

"Such extensive bruising is a concern, Mr. Winchester. I'd like to draw some blood to identify any other possible causes, unless you can do that for us?"

"I'm not sure what you're trying to say."

"It means that I saw your hands, Mr. Winchester. It's my job to take care of these patients and I'm not about to let that kid go home with you looking like he does. Unless you busted your knuckles up playing football too?"

It's easy for John Winchester to lie. Typically, it's one of the things he does best. Few people know what he does and it's easy to slide up to a stranger and feed them any amount of bunk about who he is or what he does. He doesn't hit his children.

But tonight, he did. All the evidence is on his hands and this doctor knows it. It doesn't matter that he couldn't control his own body; he should have been able to. He should have been able to stop the spirit. He can't lie now, not with the truth slapping him in the face. He nods jerkily at the waiting doctor.

"I'll be back in the morning." He turns and walks away, praying his trembling legs will get him to the car.


	2. War Paint

Spirit Fall

A/N: Thanks to everyone that has read! I may have taken a right when I should have hung a left as far as the plot goes in this but, we'll see. Let me know what you think. :)

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The flickering blue light of the television illuminates the motel room window as John approaches with a heavy heart and even heavier boots. Before his key is even in the lock though, Sam throws the door open, nervous eyes darting past his father.

"Where's Dean?" he chokes out, before John can reprimand him for opening the door like that. He carefully takes Sam's hands from the doorframe and moves into the room, closing the door after them.

"He had to stay the night."

"What? Why?" Sam jerks his wrists roughly out of his father's grip and John tries not to notice the ill hidden flinch. The boy still hadn't put a shirt on and the bruises stand out garishly on his pale torso, making him seem smaller and younger than he is.

"Because, Sam." John explains tiredly, looking away."I'm going to get him in the morning."

"Why?" Sam asks again. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong!" John barks, frustrated with the stress of the day and the never-ending questions. Not to mention exhausted from, oh yea, being possessed. He instantly regrets his anger though when Sam jumps at his voice and his posture stiffens. He sinks onto the nearest bed and scrubs at his face, tries again. "The doctors just wanted him to get a good nights rest. Okay, Sammy? That's all. Nothing's wrong." Sam nods tightly and sits mechanically on the other bed.

"Have you been icing that?" John asks, taking in the swelling nose and reddening bruises smeared under his son's eyes. Without waiting for an answer he stands and grabs a washcloth from the bathroom, wrapping a few ice cubes from the bucket in it and moving to press it against Sam's nose. Sam intercepts it though, taking the cloth from John's hand and completing the action himself with closed lips. John sits down next to him on the bed and Sam inches away.

"Look, Sammy," John sighs. "You have to understand what happened back there."

"You were possessed," Sam mumbles behind the washcloth. John nods.

"It wasn't—It wasn't me. I didn't know what was going on. It was stupid of me to let it happen, but I didn't want to hurt you. I couldn't control the damn thing." He looks up, desperate for Sam to understand and to forgive. Sam lowers the ice pack, chewing on his lip carefully.

"It's okay," he says after a moment. "I get it. You didn't mean what you said." John pauses in confusion.

"What I said? No, I--" He swallows thickly, almost afraid to ask. "What'd I say?" Sam shrugs quickly.

"Nothing really."

"What'd I say, Sam?"

"Nothing, Dad. Really." He stands and steps out of his shoes, crawls onto the bed behind his father. John watches him with growing concern.

"Sammy, whatever I said or did, it wasn't me. It was the spirit controlling my body. You understand?"

"Sure, Dad," Sam sighs, pressing his face into the pillow. "Goodnight."

"Sammy, I--"

"I already did the salt," Sam mumbles.

"Okay." John sighs slowly. "Okay." He stands and carefully folds the comforter over his already sleeping son. It's two a.m. now when he steps into the bathroom. Turning on the water as hot as it will get and scrubbing at his hands until they bleed again.

--------------------

The next morning they're woken way too early, after going to sleep way too late by the ringing of the cell phone. John sits up slowly, grabbing the phone off the table as Sam rolls out of bed too.

"Yea?"

"Mr. Winchester?" John yawns in a way that the woman must take for a yes as she rambles on.

"I'm calling on behalf of Dr. Haubstadt. He wanted you to come down as soon as possible this morning to discuss your son's case."

"I can be there in twenty minutes."

"Perfect. I'll let him know." John hangs up then, not bothering with a goodbye. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes.

"We."

"What?" John squints over at his son.

"_We_ can be there in twenty minutes." John looks up then, finally seeing Sam as the light is flicked on. His nose is swollen grossly and the bruising around his eyes has darkened to deep purple smudges. No doubt now, the nose is broken. Dr. Haubstadt would love to see that. Swallowing his guilt, John shakes his head.

"No, Sam. You're staying here."

"I want to go with you."

"I said no, Sam. That's it."

"I can wait in the car," Sam supplies hopefully.

"No!" John barks. Sam flinches again. "Would you quit doing that already?" he yells.

"Sorry," Sam mumbles, turning away. John deflates, watching his son dig through his bag for a clean, clean_er_ shirt. Sam doesn't deserve his anger right now, but sometimes the kid honestly doesn't know when to quit. Standing, John makes his way to the bathroom, splashing water on his face and shoving a toothbrush in his mouth. Sam joins him a moment later, leaning into the mirror and poking at the soft skin under his eyes.

"Can you breath alright?" John asks around the toothbrush. It's an attempt at normal concern, but there's nothing normal about their situation.

"Yea." Sam shrugs. "It's just sore."

No kidding. The skin beneath his eyes is dark as a night sky, smudges of black paint.

"Looks like you're about to go off to war," John comments. Sam smiles thoughtfully, meeting his father's eyes through the mirror.

"Maybe I am."

And then, just to prove his age it seems, the kid launches himself through the room and onto the bed, letting loose with a whooping cry of war. John jumps so forcefully he just about chokes on his toothbrush. He drops the thing into the sink and swipes his mouth clean with his sleeve.

"Sam!" he shouts, careful to keep the angry edge out of his voice this time. Sam continues around the bed in bouncing laps, hands held high. "Sam! Sam! What the hell are you doing?" Sam completes one more lap around the bed before dropping to a seat in the middle of the comforter and staring up at his father.

"I'm preparing for war," he explains innocently.

"What?" Sometimes, John isn't sure where Sam came from. He's quietly hyper, stubborn, and difficult in a way that Dean never was. And here he'd thought parenting was supposed to get easier. Sam edges off the bed.

"I'm going with you to get Dean."

John sighs.

"I know."

--------------------

The hospital is humming busily when they arrive. They worm their way toward the room Dean is supposed to be in, dodging people and gurneys and snapping doctors. John shoulders his way up to the nurses' station, intent on asking about Dean's discharge forms. But as he leans in toward the nurse in order to be heard, a doctor steps into view behind her.

"Mr. Winchester?" John straightens up to look Dr. Haubstadt in the eye and his stomach drops. The doctor looks more than a little worse for wear, fatigue and remorse and something else evident in the crease of his forehead and squint of his eyes. And then John recognizes it. _Pity_.

Something's wrong.

It feels an awful lot like a burning ulcer in the top of his stomach and he turns to Sam, wrapping an arm around the kid's shoulders as Dr. Haubstadt comes around the desk to speak to them.

"What happened?" he asks, ignoring the doctor's halting surprise as he gets an eye full of Sam's bruised face.

"Well," he begins; casting heavy gazes in Sam's direction. John expects for the man to accuse him of child abuse again, but the accusations don't come. "Uh, well, first of all, Mr. Winchester, I need to apologize for the way I spoke to you yesterday. It was disrespectful and I was out of line. I'm sorry." The doctor finally looks John in the eye. He really hadn't expected an apology, especially not with Sam standing next to him now, looking like he does. And while not undeserved, John can't accept it after what he knows he did.

"Where's my son?" he grinds out instead, gripping Sam's shoulders tighter as the boy tenses up beside him.

"May I speak in front of him?" the doctor asks, gesturing toward Sam, still eyeing the bruised nose with something like shock.

"Of course," John replies tightly. "Now, what's going on?"

Dr. Haubstadt looks away again, flips through the chart he's holding in a nervous fashion.

"Mr. Winchester, we ran that blood work that I mentioned yesterday."

"And?"

"There were some abnormalities in Dean's blood count." John inhales sharply. No beating around the bush now.

"Say what you mean, doc," he commands. Dr. Haubstadt drops the chart to his side, meets John's eyes unflinchingly.

"Mr. Winchester," he speaks slowly, carefully. "Your son has leukemia."

And there it is. It doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would. He can shut this off, the tingling in his eyes, the trembling in his knees. That's nothing. This is nothing. This is wrong. Sammy shudders under his arm.

"Leukemia?" his son asks quietly, almost inaudible in the noise of the hallway. "That's like—like cancer?" Dr. Haubstadt nods wordlessly. Sam turns in John's grip, cranes his neck to look up into his father's face.

"Dean has cancer?" He trembles after the question, eyes quickly becoming heavily glossed. John has to look away. He has to handle this.

"Doctor…" he starts and the man somehow takes the word as acceptance.

"I've contacted our resident oncologist. He'll be down later this morning to discuss treatment options with you. Until then--" John silences him with a wave of his hand.

"Doctor," he says again. "I just need to see my kid."


	3. Make Believe

Spirit Fall

A/N: This is now officially AU. I know only slightly more than the average bear about medicine and stuff, but I improvise well, so don't look into that too much. Thanks to everyone that's reading and reviewing! It makes me happy. :)Also, thank you to my faithful and trusty beta, chocolate rules, because sometimes I sense make don't, yea?

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He doesn't look sick. Somehow John had thought that just seeing Dean, he'd be able to glimpse what the doctor was talking about, the elusive disease that flows through his blood. Either that, or he'd be able to see that Dean is fine, not ill at all, alive and loud and laughing. But it isn't either. Dean is lying there asleep, or very close to it, casted arm strapped to his side. He doesn't look sick.

But he doesn't look particularly well either.

As the door swings shut behind them, Sam pulls away from his father and darts toward the bed.

"Dean?" His voice is loud and urgent in the quiet room and John struggles to grab him before he wakes his brother.

"Sam," he hisses. "Don't." But Sam is already standing next to the bed and Dean is shifting into a sitting position, not having been asleep after all.

"Hey," he greets warmly and John panics for a moment, thinking that he doesn't know.

"Dean, the doctor said that you--"

"Sam!" John curses. And wouldn't that be just the way for him to find out. He effectively quiets his youngest and turns to Dean with tired eyes.

"Son…"

Dean waves him off.

"Yea, I know. Cancer, leukemia, blah, blah, blah. It ain't like I'm dying." John stares at his son. "Speaking of which," Dean turns to Sam with a smirk. "Dude, I think your nose is dead." Sam reaches up to his face as if he'd forgotten and Dean stretches his good arm out to poke at the swollen skin.

"Ow!" Sam yelps and slaps his hand away.

"Guess not," Dean laughs.

"Jerk," Sam curses, though it sounds more like 'jurg' which only fuels Dean's laughter more. After a moment, Sam smiles too. John stares at his kids, appalled.

"Boys," he gapes. "This is serious. Quit fooling around." Sam quiets immediately, casting a sorrowful glance at his brother, but Dean only smiles. He leans toward Sam and stage whispers:

"Is he still possessed?"

"Dean!" John snaps. His eldest quiets, nods solemnly.

"Sorry, sir," he says, but turns back to Sam conspiratorially and asks: "Seriously, is he?"

"Dean, knock it off!" John snaps. Why can't he be serious for two minutes? Sam quiets again, soft laughter replaced with the nervous expression he'd adopted since the doctor had said 'abnormality.' He shifts from foot to foot, fumbles with his hands like he's verging on panic.

"Dad…" Dean starts softly. He shifts his eyes toward Sam significantly and then John realizes the kid _is_ on the verge of panic. And Dean, in all his stupid glory, is trying to keep his brother calm. John digs in his pocket for a few dollars and hands the crumpled bills to Sam.

"You didn't get any breakfast, Sammy. Why don't you go down to the cafeteria and see what they've got?" Sam looks surprised, but he takes the money without question and slips out of the room with one last reluctant glance toward Dean. As soon as the door is shut behind him, John turns back to the bed with a scowl.

"Dean, you can't protect him from this."

"Yes, I can."

"He isn't stupid, Dean. He already knows what's going on."

"And he's already freaking out."

"Dean," John tries again. "This isn't the flu. You can't hide this from him."

"Well, I can damn well try," Dean retorts with his usual attitude, but none of his usual energy. John doesn't know much about medicine and diseases beyond first aid, but he knows cancer doesn't crop up over night. Dean hashidden illness and injury from them before. Some things can't be walked off though. He sighs and shifts onto the edge of the bed.

"How long?" he asks, wanting to know for just how long his son has felt ill. Dean shrugs, probably only answering out of habit and because it's what's expected.

"A month or two…maybe more."

"Why the hell didn't you say anything?"

"I couldn't," Dean explains simply.

"You should've." John takes Dean's silence as fuel to his ever-burning fire and continues in his rant. "If you're sick Dean, then you tell me," he snaps and Dean nods mutely. "This isn't going to be easy. The last thing you need to be worrying about is keeping Sam happy. You worry about getting better, got it? That's it. Don't even think about anything else." He rambles off orders like they're preparing for a hunt because it's the only way he can control this. Dean nods and mumbles 'yes sir' just like always, even though this is far from always. This is brand new and scary as hell, but John knows Dean will do what he tells him and if he tells his son to get better, Dean had better do it.

--------------------

When the oncologist comes by, John bristles as Dean insists that Sam leave the room, but maybe it's for the best anyway. He wishes he could leave too. He doesn't want to hear about the options he has in treating his kid's cancer or the greater tortures the treatments will produce. From the look on Dean's face it's pretty clear he doesn't want to hear it either, but they listen anyway to the drone of medical terms and charts and numbers. When the doctor starts rambling off survival rates, John jumps to his feet, without even realizing he's doing it, about to take off because he can not listen to this anymore, but Dean looks up at him questioningly, so open and honest and how could he ever leave him to listen to this alone. He plays it off as a stretch, and sinks back into the chair.

Decisions are made and the doctor leaves them with about a million pamphlets and a calendar of treatment dates. Tomorrow, they have to come back for a battery of tests, but for today they're free to go and the release papers are signed with fervor.

--------------------

Going home means back to the grubby motel, but it's so much better than the hospital because at least it feels normal. If only everything would quit reminding John that this is anything but normal. Dean lays the jokes on thick, putting twice the energy he usually does into procuring that light atmosphere when it's clear he only has half his normal energy. Sam twitches every time John gets too close to him, as if he didn't feel guilty enough. And somehow, they all need to deal with this.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean asks suddenly, traipsing toward the door. "How about some basketball? There's a hoop down the other end of the parking lot." Sam looks shocked, almost frightened by the suggestion.

"Dean," he finally squeaks out. "You have a broken arm."

"You could use the advantage, kid," Dean smiles wryly. Maybe this is when John tunes in, realizing his kids are heading for the door. He sets his pen down and closes his journal.

"What are you doing?"

Dean pauses, jerking his thumb toward the door.

"Basketball," he says, like it's what they always do. Truth be told, Winchesters do not play basketball. Especially not in motel parking lots near dusk. Especially not with broken arms and noses and cancer in their blood. Maybe this is why it takes John a moment to process what his son has said.

"Basketball?" he barks. "Was that supposed to be a joke?"

"No, sir," Dean replies. Sam shifts nervously beside his brother, perhaps desperate for this tiny bit of normal, but John can only shake his head. There are so many things wrong with the idea he can't even begin to list them.

"No," he finally says. Just, no.

"Please?" the tiny word is hushed and pleading, coming from Sammy's mouth and matching the heavy sadness in his eyes. John prepares to repeat himself, sterner, louder, however to make them listen, but the way they're standing there, broken in more ways than one, Sam unnaturally sad and Dean just a bit paler than he should ever be makes him hesitate. It's partly guilt and partly the big glaring monkey wrench that was thrown into their lives that morning, but John relents. This could be, he realizes, one of the last times they ever have a chance to do something like this. This could be _the_ last time.

"Fine," he sighs, still trying to sound as authoritative as possible. "I'm coming out with you. It's getting dark." Sam breaks into this maniacal grin, forgetting everything else for the moment, but Dean only smirks, like yea, he knew Dad would give in. John doesn't take any weapons with him, save the serrated blade that's always strapped to his calf, they're close enough to the room and the car if anything should happen.

They traipse across the lot, shadows elongated by the setting sun, to the hoop. The backboard is warped wood, paint flaking off with each hit and there isn't even a net, the ball is flat, needing extra force with each dribble just to bounce back up, but for all that, Sam and Dean act as if they've just made a pit stop in Disneyland.

Sam takes a few hesitant shots at first, trying to get a feel for it with Dean's encouragement, but the kid somehow manages to sink every shot and after the tenth swoosh of the net, Dean rebounds the ball and goes for the basket himself, leaving Sam to chase after him. John stands off to the side, trying not to think of everything else they could, should, be doing and keeping an eye on the shadows, growing ever deeper as the sun sinks lower and lower. The ball gets away from the boys after awhile though, lopsidedly rolling to a stop by their father's feet. He glances at it apprehensively.

"Dad," Dean gasps. "Come help me out." He gestures with his cast. "Apparently, Sammy doesn't need any advantage." After a moment, John picks the ball up carefully, testing its weight, trying to remember when the last time he played was. It's certainly been years, at least. Sam watches with startlingly wide eyes and Dean smiles big as John hunches over, dribbling the ball a few times experimentally. He straightens, bringing the ball up, tucking his elbows in, bending his knees just enough, before letting loose with a perfect free throw. Just like riding a bike.

Sam watches awestruck, following the ball's movement through the air. The man he thought was his drill sergeant father grins as he moves to retrieve his own rebound.

"Oh man," Dean laughs. "Sammy, you're going down little brother." What follows isn't so much a game as a three way shooting spree. John hogs the ball for a while, until Sam and Dean double-team him, stealing it away. Their tactics begin to decline sometime after that, pining arms, tickling stomachs, poking bruised noses ("Foul." John calls on that one. "Apologize to your brother, Dean."). It's something like normal. Sammy doesn't twitch away from his father once and John _relaxes._

And then Dean disappears from the game, moving a few feet away and sitting down on the cold pavement, leaning back against the nearest car.

"Dean?"

"It's okay." He waves them off. "Keep playing." But the spell is broken. Night has settled deep around them and John feels suddenly, incredibly, vulnerable in the artificial glow of the street lamps.

"Inside," he commands. "Now." He turns abruptly and stalks back toward the room without checking to ensure they follow. Dean stands slowly and Sam moves toward him, dropping the ball that falls to an unnatural, flat, halt at his feet.

--------------------


	4. Twitch

Spirit Fall, Chapter 4

A/N: This chapter's a bit shorter and not my favorite either. It was sort of hard to write so let me know if it came off okay, or even if it didn't. Thanks, as always, to everyone that reads and reviews and especially chocolate rules for letting me know that I don't suck. :)Read on.

--------------------

The tests take all morning and into the afternoon, x-rays, blood work, and who knows what else. John sits in the waiting room with Sam, who isn't much company with his nose in a book, getting up occasionally only to pace. Until, after several hours, Dean appears with Dr. Haubstadt at his side.

While John really isn't fond of the man's character, he can respect him as a doctor. The man stands up for his patients, even to someone as intimidating as John himself.

Dean looks wiped out, cotton balls taped to the inside of each elbow and a larger gauze pad peeking out from the collar of his shirt. He grins lazily though when he sees them, gestures toward the bathrooms and heads in that direction with Sam suddenly on his heels. John approaches Dr. Haubstadt.

"Everything went well?" he asks gruffly.

"As well as can be expected," the doctor nods. "We should have all the results tomorrow and be able to start chemotherapy within the week."

"That soon?"

"The sooner the better. It's lucky, in Dean's case that the disease doesn't seem to be too far progressed. You know, I can't promise anything, but right now, things look good."

John smirks at the doctor's upbeat outlook.

"Kid's got cancer, doc."

Dr. Haubstadt smiles sheepishly.

"You're right, but there's no reason not to be optimistic. It's lucky that we caught it early on."

"Yea," John nods cynically. "Lucky."

Dr. Haubstadt shifts his weight and rubs at his stubbly chin.

"About your other son, Sam?" he starts innocently, but John can already see where he's going. "Dean said that he broke his nose fighting. Is that right?" John sighs and shoves his hands in his pockets.

"Listen, doctor," he begins. "I know what you're getting at here and I appreciate you trying to do your job and all, but I think, I mean, I'm pretty damn sure we already had this conversation. If you want to go over it again, feel free, but don't expect me to listen to your accusations. I love my kids and that's all that you need to know. Maybe you want to test Sam's blood too, see if he's sick too, just don't expect me to stand here and listen to this shit again because _that_ I can not take." Dr. Haubstadt nods quietly, head down, and John is vaguely aware of Sam and Dean coming up to stand behind him. "We done?" he snaps.

"Yes, sir," the doctor answers. "I'm sorry." John turns and starts for the doors.

"Let's go, boys."

--------------------

"So, Dad," Dean starts, reclining in the passenger seat on the drive home. "Any particular reason you were about to deck the good doctor?" John spares him a brief glance.

"No."

"Oh, good," Dean grins, turning to see Sam in the back seat. "'Cause for a second there I thought-"

"Dean," John warns. Dean holds his hands up defensively.

"Hey, Sammy here thought you got possessed again."

"I did not," Sam defends weakly.

"Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"_No_, I didn't."

"_Yes_, you did.You said that was exactly what he looked like when--"

"Boys! Knock it off." John tightens his grip on the wheel. "We're going back to the motel, you're both going to shut up and eat some dinner, and then you," he says looking pointedly at Dean. "Are going to get some rest. Sammy, I'm going to need your help tonight."

"With what?" Sam asks.

"The Wellington house." Sam freezes up in the back and Dean nearly jumps out of his seat.

"Dad, no way. Let me come too. I can help." Dean glances anxiously back at Sam, but John stands firm.

"No. We can handle this, just the two of us. You're sick. You need to rest."

"I don't feel sick," Dean argues.

"I don't care how you feel," John snaps, not realizing what he's said until the words have done their damage. He knows how to fight dirty, when need be, but over the years, he's lost the sense of when to swing and when to pull back and the people nearest him end up the unintended targets. Dean turns toward the window and crosses his arms over his stomach.

"Fine," he mutters. "But you can't take Sam back there alone."

"There's no other way to do it, okay?" he tries to soften his tone. "We didn't know how he worked before. Now we do. It'll be no problem to go in there and take care of it."

"No."

John glances in the rearview mirror at his younger son.

"Excuse me?"

"No, sir," Sam modifies.

"Am I going to have to do this on my own?" he asks pointedly.

"No," Dean jumps in to save his brother. "Let both of us go."

"That's not going to happen Dean. I'm sorry."

"Dad…" Dean pleads.

John sighs. If this were any other day, he wouldn't take no for an answer. But, if this were any other day, Dean would be able to help them out and there wouldn't be a problem.

"Fine."

"I can go?" Dean asks, surprised.

"No. None of us will go then. We'll hold off on this one for a few days."

"Really?" Sam asks. John makes the turn into the motel lot.

"Yea. Maybe find some more info on this Wellington guy."

"Arthur," Sam supplies.

"Yea, Arthur Wellington and the house. See if we can find anything else on the body. I'd prefer a salt and burn to an exorcism." He turns off the car and climbs out.

"And then we can all go take care of it?" Dean asks hopefully. He stands stiffly and Sam hovers nervously beside him.

"Yea, well." John shrugs. "We'll see."

--------------------

He's awake when Sam wakes. His son sits up with a choking gasp like someone emerging from a twenty-foot dive underwater.

"Sam?" he asks quietly, watching his youngest's panicked gaze jerk toward Dean, as John's own had done so often the past few hours. Sam reaches for his brother instinctually, before thinking better of it and dropping his arm back to the bedspread.

"Sam?" John asks again, louder this time, he shifts his books and papers farther onto the table and prepares to stand. The boy sits back up fast, reaching toward the nightstand for a weapon, eyes widening incredibly like his nightmares have come true.

Maybe they have.

"Samuel." John tries one more time and finally gains his son's attention. Sam pauses in his actions and glances about the room curiously. His gaze finally settles on John and he softens, visibly relaxing.

"Sorry," he stutters. "Sorry, Dad." John nods solemnly, settling back into his chair.

"Nightmare?" he asks gruffly. They've all had them at some points, but Sam's were most frequent. It was his mind's way, John supposed, of dealing with things, differently than his father or brother do. Considering the past few days and Sam's skittish behavior, he can assume what this one was about. He was probably the star.

Sam nods stiffly in confirmation. He shifts out of bed slowly and moves toward the bathroom. The hush of the faucet fills the room and then he's back, carrying a glass of water.

"You can't be scared of me, Sammy." Sam looks up, startled at his father's words; he sloshes some water over the edge of the cup onto the shaggy carpeting.

"I'm not," he answers quietly, scuffing the toe of his sock in the spill. John sighs loudly.

"I'm serious, Sam. You need to be able to distinguish between that spirit and me. Reason it out. I can't have you jumping around me all the time." Sam nods again, sinking onto the edge of the mattress. He takes a sip of water.

"I know." His voice is thin in the small room.

"You understand?" John asks skeptically.

"Yes sir."

"Then what's the problem?"

"Nothing," Sam defends weakly. John never did have the patience to pry these sorts of things out of his kids. If they wanted to talk about something, they could, but he isn't going to dig. Clearly, he knows, his possession is still eating away at Sammy. Something he said, or did, while controlled by Arthur Wellington has his son scared and John can't fix it. He feels guilty enough for their physical injuries, let alone any psychological damages.

"Fine," he sighs, turning back to his work. "Go to sleep. Tell me when you want." He can feel Sam's eyes on him for a few minutes longer, that creeping itch between his shoulder blades, but nothing is said. After a moment, the blankets rustle and the mattress creaks as the boy lies back down and drops off into a dreamless rest.

--------------------


	5. Last Stand

Spirit Fall, Chapter 5

A/N: I think I've found my new high. Who needs life when you've got crazy awesome reviewers? Seriously, thanks for reading. This chapter is probably the one you've all been waiting for, so enjoy. :)

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Chemotherapy, John decides after reading every pamphlet he could find on it, is something akin to throwing a live grenade into a crowd and hoping to take out only a few select individuals.

He'd watched the poison drip into his son's blood stream this morning. Watched Dean distract Sam with goofy grins and jokes; and even goofier flirtations with the attending nurse. He watches now, back in the motel room, as they wrestle over the remote, Sam being so freakishly careful with his brother that Dean easily wins.

He's waiting for that grenade to go off, has the countdown in his head since he got up that morning, but it doesn't happen. Sam and Dean are watching some old sci-fi movie marathon on cable and after awhile, Dean just slides down in the bed and drifts into a deep sleep. Maybe, for once, they've gotten off easy. The dang chemo, of all things, gave them a break.

He waits a few more hours; just to be sure Dean is well and truly asleep, before gathering his things and heading for the door.

"Where are you going?" Sam asks from the bed.

"Watch your brother," John says in way of an answer. "I'll be back."

They have unfinished business with a certain ghost in town and John isn't about to let this one go. He can take care of it now while Dean is asleep and never having known the better. While Sam had successfully gotten the spirit out of his father that night, it's still attached to the house, which leaves them right back where they started. This time, he's prepared with the proper charms to prevent possession, rock salt in the rifle, and the banishing spell. All he has to do is trap the ghost in part of the house and read the spell.

And get some answers.

--------------------

The house is quiet and still when he enters, sagging gray wood not even creaking in the wind, but he knows it isn't empty; he made that mistake before and won't do it again. He salts across each doorway upstairs and across the bottom of the stairs first, with no sign of the ghost, before repeating his actions on the first floor. He works his way back toward the front door, salting off the last doorway between the dining room and the foyer when he feels it again, icy hot fingers pressing at the back of his neck. He twists around and brings the shotgun up in one fluid movement, drops the salt canister to steady his aim, and gets one fleeting glimpse of a cross faced farmer before he blows the apparition to pieces.

There isn't much time now. The salt line is finished hastily and he steps over just as the spirit begins to reform. It's something like watching dust gather in slanting sunlight, the features are vague and dim, but this is a powerful spirit and what he lacks in physical presence he makes up for in volume.

"Jo-ohn," it drawls, dragging his name out into two bouncing syllables. "Win-ches-ter." He can almost hear the smile in its voice, like that was the punch line. It's never comforting when they know your name, but this one's been inside his head and that's a violation that will not be repeated. John fumbles in his bag for the banishment spell.

"I've lost my ax," the spirit drawls on. "And you've lost the children. Where are they now? I'll care for them like I did mine own. They shouldn't suffer no longer, Johnny."

"Shut up," John rants dryly, firing the rifle again and breaking up the ghostly figure. The pause gives him the chance to pull the incantation out of his bag, written in Sammy's tiny chicken scratch on an old notebook. He needs the ghost in front of him though, for it to work.

Salting and burning would have been so much easier, but there was no record of what was done with the body and searches of local cemeteries turned up nothing. This is plan C. Plan C, take two, John thinks wryly as the dusty light particles begin to take shape again, now nearer the front door.

"They shouldn't suffer no longer, Johnny." His voice comes before his head is even visible and the words hang heavily in the thickened air. John begins to read, speaking over him. The spell is short, but the spirit talks louder and angrier until his words force John to pause. "Children shouldn't so know any pain," it rants. "Children shouldn't so know any illness."

"What?" John forgets about the spell for a moment, lost in the spirit's ramblings. "What did you say?" The spirit of Arthur Wellington smiles, a bizarre effect on its grimy features.

"Your child is ill, as was mine, Johnny. Won't you bring them to me?" John doesn't bother to answer, focused on readying the rifle again. "Bring them to me," it sings. "Better with me than you." John steadies the gun against his shoulder, only one question lingering in his mind.

"What did you say to them?"

The spirit's smile stretches unnaturally wide, longer than his face.

"Nothing they haven't known. Nothing you haven't had in your mind."

"Bastard," John curses, knowing that's all the answer he'll get. He pulls the trigger again and the man is gone. The foyer is empty.

He breathes deeply and lays the shotgun on the rotting floorboards next to his feet, readies the spell. It takes longer this time and the air becomes increasingly chilly as the old farmer reforms yet again. This time, he's right in the doorway, toeing the salt line, ghostly features twisted in caricatured fury.

"Your child is ill, Johnny," he roars. John begins the spell anyway, focusing solely on reading steadily, despite the ghost's frantic rages. "Bring them to me. They shouldn't suffer no longer. Your child is dying, Johnny." He falters at this, but reads on, finishes it out, and as the old ghost burns away his final words are only a gust of wind through the hall.

"Hurry home, Johnny."

--------------------

John drives the Impala back to the motel like it's a dying mule, alternately speeding up in a panic and slowing down as he convinces himself that the spirit was only messing with him. They always play off your fears. Everything is fine.

His worst fears are brought to light though when the motel room door is flung open as soon as he steps out of the car.

"Dad!" Sam yelps, throwing the door open so hard it bounces back off the wall. "Dean's sick!" John makes it to the door in five leaping steps. He reaches out to steady his youngest, eyes immediately going to the bed where he'd left his son sleeping peacefully a few hours prior. The space is empty now, rumpled sheets pushed back and the comforter missing.

"Where?"

"The bathroom," Sam supplies quickly. John moves past him and across the room. The bathroom door is partially closed, but he doesn't bother with knocking now. He pushes it open and steps in. The room is small; closet sized and not the walk-in kind.

Dean is in the corner with his back against the tub, opposite a toilet full of vomit. The missing comforter is draped around his hunched shoulders but he shivers still, not even lifting his head to see who's entered.

John's stomach drops. So much for getting off easy.

"Dean?" he asks, kneeling next to him on the tile. "How're you doing?"

"Peachy." He has to lean in just to hear the gasping word, which makes it all the more apparent that Dean is anything but. He twists to see Sam, dancing nervously in the doorway.

"He took the medicine?" John asks, referring to the multitude of prescriptions they'd been given to fight the nausea, among other things. Sam nods jerkily, wide eyes not leaving his brother's shivering form. John turns back, eyeing the toilet with disgust. He reaches over to flush it.

"Seems to be working well," he comments softly.

"Oh, something's working." Dean tries to sound light, but he hangs on to the first word a few beats too long and by the end of it he's hunched over even further, forehead inches from the cool tile. Sam stiffens in the doorway, ready to bolt, fingernails digging into the wooden frame. John rests a light hand on his son's back, reaches another around his front to sit him back up, but Dean is wound tight, sweating and shaking, and he folds over into his father's lap.

_Your child is dying._

For a moment, John is lost. He forgets who this sick person is and what he's supposed to do about it. He can't recognize his own child in this weak shell, too pale features, and flat, tired eyes, mouth tight with pain. It's so ridiculously unlike the person he knows is in there, for a moment, he can believe the spirit's words.

"Dad?" Sam's shaky question is echoingly loud in the tiled room.

"I got him," John reassures quietly, automatically. He glances behind him. "Sammy, go put the trash can next to the bed and straighten out the sheets. Get some water." Sam nods silently, eyes still round with fear, and slips out of the tiny room. John leans closer to his son.

"Dean?" he whispers, glancing toward the toilet again. "You done in here?" Dean heaves a breath, licks his lips like he wants to say something more when all that comes out is a simple yes.

"Okay," John nods, watching as Dean's eyes don't open. "Okay." He pulls the blanket tighter around Dean and shifting carefully, slides an arm under his shoulders and another beneath his knees. He knows how bad it is when Dean doesn't complain about being carried, but John swallows his fear and focuses on maneuvering the limp body out of the bathroom and onto the straightened bed. Dean curls over immediately as he's placed on the mattress, arms wrapped around his middle.

"Sam, get the other blanket," John commands, sitting down on the edge of the mattress. Sam yanks the comforter off the other bed and throws it over his brother, the material billowing in John's face like a magician's cloth.

_Your child is dying_.

"Dad?" Dean's voice is little more than a choked whisper, rasping in the back of his throat. His eyes are red and glossed, blinking up at his father slowly.

"What? Dean, I have to call the doctor." Concerns of cost and money were thrown out the window long ago. John Winchester can have a debt. Dean licks his dry lips again and John reaches for the water glass Sam put on the table. He holds it out for his son to take, but Dean's eyes have slid closed again and he looks frighteningly still against the starch white sheets, like a black and white photo, a still frame. John blinks harshly against the image and slams the cup back onto the table. Turning, he stands swiftly and moves toward the door. Sam gapes at him, panicked eyes now holding disbelief.

"What?" he exhales.

"Watch him," John barks, avoiding the figure in the bed. "I'll be right back."

"What?" Sam breathes again, but his only response is the closing of the door after his father.

John stalks out into the hallway, his steps gradually weakening from a stomping march to a strong walk, to a stumbling gait. He makes it around the corner, out of view of everyone, before slumping against the wall, desperate for some kind of support. He slides to the floor.

_Your child is dying._

A car door slams in the distance and he lifts his head, shaking it purposefully against the spirit's prediction.

"No," he mutters aloud. Dean isn't dying. He can't. He can't. "He can't!" he yells it aloud, to make it all the more true. He cannot die, for so many reasons it makes John ache. He cannot die, because they aren't done yet. There's too much left to do and see and _live_. Damn it. He exhales slowly, latching back on to that crumbling edge of control, and drags himself up to his feet. There are too many things to do. He starts back for the room, flexing his fingers. Dean can't die. Dean won't die. They aren't damn well done yet.

--------------------


	6. Arson and Old Lace

Spirit Fall, Chapter 6

A/N: Not much to say this time, except the usual. Thanks to everyone that's sticking with me here and especially chocolate rules. Only a few chapters left. Let me know what you all think of this one. :)

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When life sucks, run.

While not exactly an honorable move, or something that any Winchester would admit to, it certainly is what they do.

And right now, life sucks.

"Mr. Winchester, please. I really wouldn't recommend this."

John nods, quietly absorbing Dr. Haubstadt's spiel in the hospital hallway.

"It's best, for the patient of course, to stay in one place during treatment." He glances significantly toward the waiting room where Dean sits next to his brother, bundled in a heavy sweatshirt and stocking cap despite the warm weather. "Dean made it clear that he intends to move, but maybe you could convince him otherwise. Traveling can be extremely taxing, especially when your immune system is already compromised."

"Doctor," John interrupts. "You said that Dean would have some time between treatments right?"

Dr. Haubstadt nods amicably.

"Yes, a recovery period."

"So, we have a few weeks, at least, before the next cycle?"

"Yes, but--"

"What, then, might you recommend we do with a few weeks doctor?" he asks sardonically. "Sit around and wither?"

"Well, it's called a recovery period for a good reason, Mr. Winchester," Dr. Haubstadt explains. "Dean should rest."

"He can rest anywhere," John argues calmly.

"It would be best if he stayed here."

"Oh, doc, no offense," John smirks. "Anywhere but here would be best."

"I can't change your mind, can I?"

"Nope."

The doctor hangs his head and rubs wearily at his forehead.

"Okay then," he sighs. "Where should we fax the records?"

--------------------

There's never much to pack, but it's a ritual. They each have one bag for clothes, there's one bag for hunting gear, no weapons, one bag for hunting gear, just weapons, one small bag for bathroom stuff, the first aid kit, and a garbage bag for shoes and jackets. At least, that's how it's supposed to work. Even John's military habits can't straighten things out sometimes. The lines are blurred as to what exactly is Sam's and what is Dean's. And when it's Sam's turn to pack the hunting bags, he insists on asking about every single item, are protective charms weapons or gear? Is holy water a weapon? Is salt a weapon? Is the knife I used to make peanut butter and jelly a weapon?

It doesn't matter anymore, especially when they're in a hurry and everything gets shoved into whatever bag it'll fit into. Dean helps out as much as he can, but it's only been a few days and he hasn't eaten anything but crackers and soda water. John keeps a careful eye on him as they all move about the room and Sam does the same. That neurotic hyperawareness that would drive Dean insane if he had the mind to notice it.

He zips his bag up, though it contains as much of anyone's stuff as his own, and shuffles out the door. Sam and John continue to pack, rustling clothes and bags and zippers the only sounds. After a few minutes they share nervous glances toward the door, and when it's gotten to be so long that Dean for sure could have made it to the car and back five times over, Sam jumps up nervously.

"Dad, I'm going to go--" John cuts him off with a shake of his head though, moving toward the door himself, he motions to the bags.

"Finish up here, Sammy."

Outside, the air is cool, but the sun is bright and John squints out across the parking lot toward the car, nearly missing what is right in front of him. Dean is only a few feet away, seated on the curb, duffel bag sagging on the pavement next to him, having never made it to the car. He looks up as John approaches, too pale features unreadable in the summer light and he moves to stand, but John motions him back down before folding himself onto the curb next to him.

"We should be on the road by eight," he starts casually. Dean nods, like small talk is something his father always attempts.  
"That late?"

"Stopping in town for some dinner first," John explains.

"Dinner sounds good,"

"Really?"

Dean shrugs.

"Yea, I'm just sick of crackers." They're quiet for a moment, squinting out at the hazy parking lot. Heat rises into their shoes from the pavement below. Dean shivers. "Hey, Dad, you, uh, you took care of that Wellington guy, didn't you?" The question is abrupt, but lacking the accusation John might've expected.

"Yea," John nods. "He's gone. The house is clean."

"You found the bones?" Dean asks. John watches him closely, frowning.

"No, I had to exorcise him from the house, we couldn't find a record of the body."

"So, he might still be hanging around?"

John shakes his head, confused by Dean's questioning. He'd thought his son would be upset that he went alone, without telling them, or upset that he wasn't a part of the hunt. Not so concerned with the actual success of the thing.

"No. I stood there and watched the guy dissipate."

Dean nods carefully, considering.

"Maybe we should burn the house," he suggests abruptly.

"What?" It's an odd idea and not something they would typically consider, considering all of the possible complications. "Why?"

Dean shrugs.

"Just to be sure, I guess."

"The spirit is gone, Dean. We're not going to burn someone's house down, just to be sure."

"No one lives there," he argues.

"It's still someone's house," John barks, rising to his feet and looking down at his son, hunched on the curb. Suddenly remembering why he came out here in the first place, he swallows thickly and softens his words. "Sam said it's some kind of historical landmark. Even if the exorcism hadn't worked, which it did, we were trying to save the house and protect the people that go there. Burning it down would kind of defeat the purpose."

Dean nods quietly.

"Yes, sir." John accepts the compliance easily and extends a hand to pull Dean to his feet. The boy stands lightly, weight already sliding off his bones like ice off a roof. John waits a moment to be sure he's steady before picking up the duffel and slinging it over his shoulder.

Sam comes out of the room then, weighted down by the rest of the bags, slung precariously over both shoulders and arms. His eyes, perpetually wide, take in his brother's pale form.

"You okay?"

"Just peachy, Sammy," Dean grins, moving to take some of the bags from him. He turns toward the car then with a smile and a sharper edge to his gaze that John should've caught. Looking back later, he realizes, he should have known. They should have left town right then, but maybe, part of him knew what had to be done and let it happen. Might as well have done it himself.

--------------------

They go settle down to eat at a little restaurant on the edge of town. It's a pretty quiet affair. Dean picks at his food and John eats quietly while Sam swings his legs under the table. Dusk settles around them and the fluorescent lights make it impossible to see out onto the street. Toward the end of the meal, Dean stands suddenly and motions to the bathroom. Both Sam and John jump up to follow him, but he waves them off.

"Chill. I just got to take a leak." He's gone for two minutes and then five and then ten minutes before John shoves away from the table and stalks toward the restrooms. The cramped bathroom, stale with dead air, is empty though and a quick check of the row of stalls reveals the same. He rushes back out to the dining room, noting Sam still alone at the table, before shoving through the front doors and onto the sidewalk, light spilling out behind him. After a beat, Sam appears at his side, staring in bewilderment at the space where the Impala should have been, was, but isn't. He looks up at John.

"Where'd he go?"

They should've known.

--------------------

From the restaurant, it's over a twenty-minute walk to the Wellington farm and a good hike to the house once you're on the property. John traipses the distance in half the time though, long legs eating up gravel road and Sam hurrying beside him in a step, step, gallop rhythm to keep up.

"Where'd Dean go?" he pesters.

"That house," John spits like it's a dirty word, focused on the road ahead.

"Why?" John just lets that question hang in the cooling night air because there are too many answers and none of them are good. "Why, Dad?" Sam asks again, but the farm has just come into view and while he can't see any, John can smell smoke.

He takes off at a run, leaving Sam to chase him down the country road and through the half-mile thick woods surrounding the house. The trees are high and neat, easy to run through, but dense. The smell leads them on, that heavy musk of dying wood, choking the air as they chase through the forest catching glimpses of fire orange and blinding yellow between the trunks.

John bursts into the clearing first. The farmhouse heaves up in front of him, rooms choked with fire, living flames that dance behind swirled glass windows and wisp ever higher, reaching for the roof.

At a safe distance on the lawn, the Impala idles; growling engine drowns out the crackling flame, reflected and alive in the black paint. There is just one sound, one smell. Time slows down and for a moment, John doesn't even see his son. Melting into the fiery landscape, Dean is perched calmly on the bumper, hunched and shivering, watching the houses in flames and John gags on a breath of smothering smoky air, wondering if he remembers.

"Dad!" Sam yelps, stumbling out of the trees behind them. Sirens cut through the smoke then, the high whine and blaring horn of fire trucks and John springs into action.

"Dean!" he yells. "Let's go!" Dean nods vaguely before his father reaches him, delirious with the flames, until John pulls him off the car, an arm around his shoulders to guide him into the passenger seat.

Sam's already buckled into the back as John slides in behind the wheel, throwing the car into gear and tearing down the driveway. The fire trucks pass them a mile out on the gravel road, but by then they're home free and the burning house is just a speck of light in the rearview mirror.

John doesn't let off the gas until they're crossing the Nebraska state line into Colorado. He'd told Dr. Haubstadt they were heading for Arizona, as good a place as any, and he has a few leads down there that are worth checking out. But it's only then, a few hundred miles from the fire that he trusts himself to speak. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the earthy smoke scent that clings to them still, and opens his mouth.

But there are too many things to say, too many words to yell, too much anger to convey. He narrows his eyes at the ever-approaching pavement, glowing under their headlights.

"You shouldn't have done that," he states firmly, that scary calm angry, not turning his head in either direction. Sam is silent in the backseat, watching the careful exchange, waiting for his brother to respond. But Dean remains quiet beside John. He shifts, the gentle creak of leather, and nods.

---------------------


	7. Refrain

Spirit Fall, Chapter Seven

A/N: This fic has become some kind of monster. If you'll believe it, it was really supposed to be a chapter out of another fic I had in mind and then it was just supposed to be a one shot and now we have the longest anything I have ever written. Okay then. It just makes me happy that you all are continuing to read this and enjoy it. This chapterexposition (yay) and other random fluff. Thanks, as always, to chocolate rules.I won't be able to update for awhile after this, because I'll be out of town (Boston and Cape Cod, my first trip in four years!) butI hope to have the next parts ready when I get back. Until then. Read on. :)

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They find an apartment in southwestern Arizona. It's a decently sized complex, wider than it is tall, with sprawling dirt lawn and a gravel lot. Cheap though, and furnished. The town itself is tiny, with a movie theater, a school, a hospital and not much else. The hospital is supposed to be good though, which is what really matters.

It's a few weeks after they settle in that Dean has his second round of chemo, no easier than the first. It's not easier being a thousand miles from where the whole thing started. Turns out you can't run from something that's inside of you.

John's there for the whole thing this time, no ghosts to hunt, nowhere to slip away to. In the bathroom, he keeps a hand on Dean's back and an eye on Sammy, wondering if it was like this last time and, if it was, how the hell had Sam, or either of them for that matter, managed. He aches for the times he could fix all their hurts with a band-aid or some gauze and tape. He carries Dean again, from bathroom to bed, cringing with every step. The sickness is the same, but he notes the subtle shift of weight. Dean seems somehow both lighter and heavier in his arms, leaning against him and he hates that this could ever become habit. Even though Dean had been eating well the past few weeks, he'd never regained the weight he lost the first time around and John can only imagine more sliding off after this bout.

Maybe, he thinks, this is how cancer kills. Little pieces falling away until there's nothing left but a broken spirit.

Dean's oddly quiet in the days after his treatment. It takes John awhile to figure it out, but he feels it too. Moving so far from the Wellington House, all hope that this could have been something supernatural is lost. It's why Dean burnt that house down and why John insisted on moving them. This isn't something paranormal though. This is human weakness, something even Winchesters fall victim to. John prays to God that he might've been able to beat this thing with rock salt, a loaded gun, and incantations, but it isn't like that. This is Dean's battle, a normal battle, and one that John and Sam must stand on the sidelines for.

The doctors run Dean's blood work again and find the numbers not much changed at all. It's not bad, they concede, but certainly not what they hope for. Dean takes the news stoically.

"They said it wasn't bad," Sam offers hopefully. "Not bad means it has to be at least sort of good."

"Not bad," Dean states purposefully. "Means not bad."

--------------------

"Hey Sammy?" John asks a few days later, still puzzling over Arthur Wellington's last words to him. "Do you have that information you got on the Wellington house?"

"Yes sir," Sam moves off the couch, where he'd been reading and Dean was dozing, to switch on the laptop, opening the proper file.

"Thank you," John nods quietly, a dismissal, but Sam remains next to him in the pause that follows, standing silently, apprehensively.

"Dad?" he starts in that too cautious, almost fearful tone. It isn't fear though, not really. Sam's still nervous all the time, still scared, but more like himself around his father. Maybe, John considers, he'd been mistaking Sam's anxieties over his brother's illness for something related to the possession. They'd happened so closely and there'd been little time to deal with either. Or, maybe, the move had done at least one of them some serious good. A thousand miles from Arthur Wellington, John can only be Sam's Dad and not that someone else wearing his skin. "I think I left a pair of jeans in Albuquerque," Sam finishes in a rush. John turns away from the computer screen.

"Which pair?"

His son shifts uncomfortably.

"The good ones."

"Sam, damn it," he exhales loudly. "You've got to keep track of your stuff. We can't afford this."

"I know."

John gets a good look at the jeans his son's wearing now, holes in the knees, a tear on one pocket, and a stain around one ankle that couldn't be anything but blood.

"Alright," he sighs, taking out his wallet. "There was a thrift store a few blocks south. Can you manage that?" Sam nods, accepting the ten-dollar bill quietly. Dean rolls off the couch, shoving a baseball cap over his thinning hair.

"I'll go with him."

"Fine," John agrees. "Make sure he doesn't get distracted."

"Yes, sir."

John accepts the answer, turning back to the screen as they stroll out the door. Sam had been pretty thorough on this one, while John had only gotten the cliff notes before going in. There are birth records for Arthur Wellington, his wife, two daughters and a son. A death certificate for the wife, died in 1801 giving birth to the youngest child, the son. Dated ten years later, a death certificate for the son. The cause of death is listed as 'unknown illness.' John shrugs at that one. Lots of illnesses were unknown back then. It's unlikely they even had a doctor look at him.

John opens the next file; one Sam has labeled 'news.' There are several articles, from 1805 up through the twenties mentioning deaths in the area from an 'unknown illness.' The disease puzzled doctors of the time, which wasn't saying much. Symptoms included high fever, cough, and hallucinations. Nothing too out of the ordinary there, probably some kind of extreme flu strain. The fever would certainly explain the hallucinations.

After that, Sam had found death records for all three of the remaining Wellington's; all dated the fifteenth of May 1814. Cause of death for all three was obvious. Asphyxiation for Arthur and what the coroner had described as 'disembodiment' for his daughters. There are further notes though. Apparently, both daughters had been suffering with the mysterious illness and the report guessed that Arthur had shown symptoms as well. Probably, John decides, what had made him crazy enough to butcher his children. The disease, whatever it had been, did sound gruesome. It wasn't a quick way to die, and with no treatment available, the victims were sure to suffer.

John closes the file and then the computer, leaning back in the chair and pulling out his journal. Arthur Wellington must have decided to take matters into his own hands to end things for his daughters quickly. He'd already seen one child lost to the disease and didn't want to see more suffer. His own illness contributed to the grisly way he went about it and subsequent suicide.

No wonder the guy had stuck around his house for so long. Talk about issues. The man was ill and perhaps in death he could see what he did was wrong and feel regret, but could do nothing to change it. He couldn't break the pattern and he was angry with himself for it, that burning emotion John had felt when possessed.

Not that it matters now. Still, John wonders just how sick you would have to be to kill your own children in such a way. To kill your children at all even. He can't imagine it, no matter how they might be suffering. And yet, at the same time, he's seen so much death, he knows it brings some peace. It isn't all bad. He understands mercy killings all too well.

He's considered suicide himself, more times than he will ever admit. Late nights, with his children sleeping mere feet away, any necessary method spread before him. He's stood there, gun held in dry fingers, thinking, and waiting for that moment of impulsivity. His mind screaming do it, get it over with and his heart knowing he can't, won't ever do that. Suicide is the easy way out and John Winchester has never taken the easy way.

But to do that for someone else, he might be able to. To end a child's suffering he might be able to. But his children are another story. With Dean so sick, if it ever came to that, it's hard to say. Could he ever be desperate enough to end his child's suffering?

--------------------

They return an hour or so later and, despite their father's earlier warning, it becomes clear that someone got very distracted. Sam comes in; grinning big with new jeans slung over his shoulder, and lays the change on the table next to John's hand. He pauses in his writing and looks up, eyes widening at the sight of the thing on his son's head.

It may have been tan or even white at some point, but the stiff felt is dirtied dark brown and worn around the edges. The brim is curved perfectly though and Dean smiles wide beneath it.

"What," John asks. "Is that?"

"A hat," Sam laughs. "A cowboy hat." He dances around his brother, pointing out the features like a salesman trying to make a sell. "See? It'll cover his head and protect him from the sun and it was only fifty cents and--"

"And," Dean interrupts, pointing at his head and grinning. "It looks damn good."

John can't help the slow smile that pulls at his features. He stands and crosses the room to them, laying a heavy hand on his son's shoulder.

"How about some pizza?"

Sam gapes at him.

"You're not mad."

"Not mad." John shakes his head.

"And…pizza?" Sam stutters.

"Aren't you hungry?"

Sam nods quickly, glancing up at Dean for help through this odd behavior of their father's, but his brother only smirks and shoves him toward the door.

"I told you he wouldn't care."

"Pizza?" Sam asks again carefully, just to be sure. John nods. He didn't think he'd been so strict all the time that some freaking pizza would be a reason to be suspicious or to celebrate, but apparently, he needs to take a closer look at his parenting habits. Sam leaps out the door after Dean in a moment of unrestricted energy, feet crunching across the gravel, kicking up dust.

"Pizza!" he hollers, throwing himself at his brother. For as old an eighteen as Dean is, Sam is an even younger thirteen and they always choose the oddest moments to surprise him by acting their ages.

"Sam!" John yells after him, hastily grabbing his jacket and wallet. "Wait a minute!" He hurries out the door after them, ensuring it's locked and closed properly. He turns to catch up with them, but they're already across the parking lot, already next to the car, ready to go. He has to squint against the blinding sun, reflected sharply in every car window, just to see them, shoving each other and laughing, a careful dance of normality. Dean in his cowboy hat and Sam with that maniac grin. Happy.

John knows then, seeing them, no matter how little hope might remain, no matter how much pain, no matter how much loss, he could never end anything. They will always keep fighting, until the bell rings at the end of the last round and they're hanging on to the ropes just to stand.

It's the only thing they know how to do.

--------------------

tbc


	8. Spirit Falling

Spirit Fall, Chapter 8

A/N: Hello all! I'm back. The Cape was amazing, Boston was awesome (even though we got lost for almost half a day) I feel so naive because I really didn't realize big cities were so...big. :) Hah! Out of my element there. Anyway, posting this chapter on a bit of a whim. I wrote this and had fully intended for it to be the end. I sent it to chocolate rules and said 'this is the end' and she said 'no it is not!' and pointed out where else it could go. So, you can thank her for any of the following chapters. Angst ahoy y'all.

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The third time is the charm, they say. Dean takes his third run of chemo on one of those dazzling, big, blue-sky afternoons. He's ready, the doctors say, despite the cough he's developed over the past few days. John hasn't worried so much over a sneeze in thirteen years, since Sam was a baby. He buys Lysol, bleach, and air disinfectant to clean the apartment top to bottom and insists on Dean wearing a jacket and hat every time he goes outside, despite the overly warm Arizona weather.

The thrift store cowboy hat has become a permanent fixture on his head, but John suspects that he wouldn't wear it so much if Sammy didn't grin like a maniac every time he does. He wears it even now, though, sitting in the doctor's treatment chair with Sam five miles away at the library. It's a curious sight in the middle of the hospital, but Dean looks so right and comfortable, completely oblivious as he smiles at the nurses.

Ignoring the ashen skin, hollow cheeks, and red-rimmed eyes isn't easy, but John can imagine this other life for Dean, one where he might live out in the country, tend animals, have a family, grow. It's all about the wide-open spaces, wild and free, where anybody can find peace, even Winchesters. If Mary hadn't died, if they didn't hunt, if Dean hadn't gotten sick, they could've been happy in a place like that. It was never meant to be though, not for them, John knows that and he can't dwell on maybes and what ifs right now.

They're lucky, so the doctors say; Dean's reaction to the medication follows distinct patterns. As it is, he's asleep before they're out of the parking garage, slumped against the window, breathing even fog against the glass. The library isn't far and John drives slowly through town. He watches Dean from the corner of his eye, knowing the hell that is sure to come later on and wishing they could just keep driving like this. Dean could sleep off this cancer like a cold, safe and warm in the Impala.

Under the bright sun, Sam sits on the curb waiting as they pull up and he climbs into the backseat with a stack of books. He rambles on about stars and comets, black holes, and whatever else he was looking up just because he wanted to know. John wonders when the last time he ever learned something just because he wanted to know and not because his, or his kids' lives, or someone else's life, depended on it. He doesn't remember that curiosity about the world leaving him, but it's gone just the same and he doesn't miss it.

"So, it's like, infinite?" Dean asks, apparently having woken up, always with that extra bit of energy for his brother. "Just goes on, and on, forever?"

"Yea," Sam nods. "Theoretically." Dean smiles at this and leans back into the leather.

"Cool." Sam flips open one of his books to point out a picture, leaning far across the front seat to show Dean. The sound of his voice alone is soothing enough for John, with Dean interrupting randomly to comment. It seems too fast as he makes the turn into the apartment lot, finding a space near their building.

"Hey Sammy," Dean asks. He pushes the car door open and sticks his feet out, staring down at the wavy concrete. "You ever actually tried to fry eggs on the sidewalk?"

"No," Sam laughs at the random question.

"Well," Dean sighs, rising slowly to his feet. "Maybe you should." John comes around the front of the car to help him up, but Dean waves him off, readjusting the hat on his head. Sam laughs as he gathers his things out of the back mumbling a yea, sure to Dean before asking his father if they have any eggs. They move across the parking lot at Dean's pace, Sam and John on his either side.

And then Dean stops, and Sam stops, and the world stops.

Dean pauses suddenly in his steps, halting. He tilts his head back to squint up at the sun. Sam closes his mouth, gazing up at his brother questioningly.

"Dean?" John leans toward his son, studying the sweat shined skin. He reaches out hesitantly to rest his hand on Dean's back, but the moment his palm brushes the jean of his jacket, Dean slumps against him, becoming entirely boneless, leaving brother and father to catch his weight.

--------------------

"Anemia?" John repeats.

"That's when you don't have enough red blood cells," Sam supplies anxiously.

"I know what it is," John snaps, looking back to the doctor. "I just don't understand how it could cause this."

"Anemia is very common in patients going through chemotherapy," the doctor explains. "Dean also has a bacterial infection in his lungs and is running a significant fever because of it. That, in combination with the effects of the treatment this morning." The doctor shakes his head. "He needs to rest. His blood pressure was fairly low when you brought him in. Has he been experiencing any chest pains or shortness of breath?"

"No," John shakes his head, alarmed. "No."

The doctor nods.

"Severe anemia can sometimes cause arrhythmias and palpitations, which is something we'll have to watch him for. Fluid building up in the lungs is also a big concern right now. This cancer," the doctor pauses, purses his lips. "It's much more aggressive than we thought. We've got him on a strong antibiotic, as well as something stronger for the nausea, but he has been vomiting. We were considering a sedate, but he's calm now and is resting."

"Comfortably?" Sam interrupts. John reaches out to his distraught son, but Sam moves away. "That's what they always say," he explains nervously. "In movies and stuff. They always say, 'and they're resting comfortably.'"

"Yes," the doctor nods, surprised, looking to John for guidance. "Of course."

"We can see him then?" John asks quickly.

"Of course. I'll take you to him."

--------------------

It's the wrong room. John turns to tell the doctor that this is the wrong room and this isn't his son, but the man has already disappeared out into the hall. He glances back at the gaunt, pale figure in the bed, jutting bones and sunken features, horrified to see Sam already at the side of the bed, picking up one of the boy's hands. John jumps toward him to tell him not to touch this person, they don't even know him, but then he gets a closer look at the features. Strong jaw and defined nose and he realizes.

This is Dean. He's sick and maybe even dying.

Damn, he's glad Mary went fast. The thought flies mercilessly through John's mind as he realizes the small kindness that may have been granted his wife in dying and his family in mourning her. She didn't suffer and wither.

Sam shifts onto the edge of the bed, grasping Dean's hand lightly. His brave boys, always fighting, struggling for something: revenge, normalcy, approval, each other, love, and now, life, always together. He moves closer to the bed himself, sickened by his earlier thoughts and trying hard to see something of his defiantly strong eldest in the body on the bed. He's in there, somewhere.

One thing hunting all these years has taught John is the complete insignificance of the body. Ghosts live on and on, haunting for decades and centuries after their physical selves are long gone. It's the spirit that lives on, passion, anger, or love causing them to hang tight to this world. Dean has passion for life, for surviving, living, breathing. He has anger for the demon that tore their family apart; the fuel that keeps them on this never-ending quest for revenge. And he for damn sure has love, sometimes a weakness, playing out in the way he holds the strings of their family together still, tying them in ever tighter knots. They can't lose anyone now and John knows Dean will survive somehow. He has to.

He drops into the chair beside the bed, resting his head on his fist and they wait. Visiting hours don't really mean anything anyway and it's after midnight when Sammy lies down, curling into the space next to his brother on the thin mattress and falling asleep. John watches them in a sort of trance, their chests rising and falling in parallel patterns. He doesn't even immediately realize when Dean's eyes creep open.

"Hey," he jumps, rising toward the bed. "How're you doing?" Dean's gaze shifts about the room, finally settling on his father. His mouth twitches as he notices Sam, clinging to his side.

"Think I got a tumor," he rasps. John smiles slowly.

"Looks more like a brother."

"Same thing," Dean sighs and shifts in the bed, blinking heavily.

"Yea," John agrees, suddenly nervous, crazy energy to do _something_ coursing through him. "I guess you're right about that." He pulls the chair closer to the bed and sits, resting his elbows on the blanket and forcing himself to be still. "You scared us there, kiddo."

"Sorry," Dean breathes, licking his lips. John shakes his head.

"Don't you ever be sorry, Dean. Not now."

"That bad?"

"No," John frowns. "No. Not bad at all. Doc says you just need to rest up. Eat your spinach."

"I hate spinach," Dean drawls thoughtfully. "It's green."

"How about some crackers then?" John asks. "Some soda water?" He knows Dean hates both, especially when it's all he can stomach, but the suggestion doesn't get the rise he expected. Dean just shakes his head vaguely and sinks deeper into the pillow.

"M' tired," he mumbles, closing his eyes. "You'll watch Sammy now, Dad?" John opens and closes his mouth, studying his son in concern and confusion.

"Yea. I'll watch him, Dean. Don't worry." He reaches out to rest his palm on Dean's warm, dry forehead.

"You should've seen his face," Dean rambles, eyes suddenly open again and roaming to focus vaguely on his father. He blinks slowly and John feels eyelashes brush his fingers. "That night, Dad. At that house." John nods to let Dean know he understands he's talking about the night he was possessed at the Wellington house. Dean goes on, eyes squinted in confusion or fatigue. "You had him, or, that guy, the spirit had him up against the wall and I couldn't, I couldn't _get_ there. You," he pauses, swallows harshly and John nods for him to continue. "That spirit, he told Sam that I was sick. He knew that, before you even did, before any of us did. And Sam tried to argue with him that he was wrong. That's when you, he, _it_ broke his nose. God, there was a lot of blood," Dean whispers, rolling his head to see Sam, still sleeping quietly beside him. John leans closer when his son's voice begins to shake. "And then," Dean finishes dryly. "He told Sammy that I was going to die."

"Dean, no…"

"You should've seen his face," Dean repeats, not hearing or not seeing his father. "Dad, Sam, he believed it." He exhales and bites hard on his lip. "We thought Wellington was confused, talking about his own kids, but I could already tell something was wrong and then we knew and if he was right about me being sick, Dad, he'd be right about that too." It's as much a question as anything and John shakes his head mutely, rubs his thumb along Dean's brow.

"You know they say anything," he ventures. "To cut at you. He knew what to say to get Sammy upset. That's all. There's no way he could know what's going to happen." The argument sounds weak, even to him, but he tries not to show how shaken he is. The spirit's words rush back to him and everything that had happened after. How scared he'd been, how ready to believe, but for Sam, and Dean, it had to have been worse. They already had proof of Arthur Wellington's predictions. He attempts a crooked smile. "You said it yourself, son. You ai'nt dying." Dean blinks and looks away, gaze settling slowly on Sam, sleeping peacefully, oblivious, beside him.

"It's harder than I thought," he breathes, seemingly exhausted from his long explanation. John takes a carefully deep breath, studying the rise and fall of Dean's chest along with his own. But where his chest moves smoothly, Dean's hitches hollowly.

"You just have to be strong," John speaks shakily. He offers the only comforts he knows how to give with his son lying before him now, slipping away like the trickiest of spirits, fading into dusty air. "You just have to keep going. It's like any hunt," he whispers, trying to simplify it, to hang tight to hope. He leans in closer to his son. "We know the enemy and we know how to beat it. We kill this thing. We win. That's it."

"Yea," Dean agrees tiredly, reaching up to brush his fingers through Sammy's hair, even as his eyes close. "That's it."

---------------------

tbc


	9. No Middle Man

Spirit Fall, Chapter 9

A/N: Thanks to everybody that's read and reviewed! That's why Ikeep writing this thing anyway.

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"Your son isn't waking up."

John stares at the doctor for a moment, taking in her overly sorrowful, apologetic, pitiful, sad expression, like she's talking about her own kid or something. It's enough to make him ill.

"Clearly," he drawls dryly in reply. "Did it take eight years of med school for you to figure that one out?"

Her face falls flat at this and she purses her lips in annoyance.

"Sir, I'm just trying to explain to you what we're going to be doing now."

John shifts backward and crosses his arms stiffly. They've seen enough doctors by now to know the ropes and how every doctor has their own unique, yet still similar, way of tip toeing through the 'delicate' issues. And he's had about enough of it.

"Hey doc," he interrupts. "Cut the shit, okay? I get it. My kid," he pauses to breath. "My _son_ is dying."

"I won't lie to you--"

"Oh, good," John grins sarcastically.

"That is a possibility, Mr. Winchester," she continues, unwavering. "But right now, his odds are looking good."

"This isn't a goddamn poker game lady!" he growls feverishly. "Don't talk to me about odds and chances."

"But--"

"But nothing. You go do your job, whatever the hell it takes. And if you'll excuse me, I need to go do mine." And then he turns, as he has so often in the past, leaving one very disgruntled person in his wake, and marches back to his family.

--------------------

Inside Dean's room, the lights are dimmed, just one small lamp above the bed and there are no windows. It's too easy to lose track of time in the shadowed space with no sense of the outside world. Dean lies as still as ever in the bed, a bony testament to strength, jaw tilted upward in defiance even as he sleeps. Sam is seated beside him; arms crossed on the white blanket and chin resting on his knuckles. His eyes flick over to his father, but he doesn't move as John sits opposite him.

John drags his chair closer to the bed, wanting, needing to settle into this bubble of theirs, just for a minute, breathing the same air in a timeless void.

In the week since they'd been here, Dean's waking moments had been few and fading. No more words exchanged than reintroductions and simple explanations. It's Dad, Dean. It's Sam. You're in the hospital. The last exchange had been two days ago though. Now, Dean slept away in what the doctors insisted was not a coma, though he showed most signs of being so.

John was truly beginning to think that these people have no idea what they're talking about.

He clears his throat softly.

"Sammy?" he asks. Sam glances up without speaking, wide brown eyes peering over Dean's side like a soldier belly down in the trench. "It's late. We should go get some sleep."

"I'll stay here," Sam replies flatly, looking back to his brother.

"You need to sleep," John says more sternly, staring hard at his youngest. Sam doesn't even move under his command though. "Sam," John orders again, reluctantly standing himself. "Let's go."

A heated glare hits John straight in the forehead and he wishes for not the first time throughout all this that he had some kind of backup. Someone to stand beside him and say 'Yes, Sam, now' and 'don't argue' and 'don't worry, everything will be okay.' He needs Mary now. He needs to talk to the one person that could always understand.

"Sam, I'm not saying it again," he growls, but in his mind, he's making other plans. Seeing dark highways, pushing through the drive to a sunny day, a field of flowers, Mary. He has to go. He has to go now.

Sam still isn't moving though, instead watching and waiting carefully for what his father will do next. He's testing the limits and Lord knows now is not the time for it. John moves swiftly around the bed to him, grips him under the arms and pulls him to his feet.

"Hey," Sam protests, jumping away from his father's hands. John grapples for his arm.

"I wasn't giving you options."

"But Dean--"

"He'll be here when we get back." John half expects Sam to throw a fit as he's dragged out of the room, but this is Dean's space, his sanctuary. Neither of them will yell in a place where they barely dare whisper.

In the hall, Sam pulls away from his father's hold to jab at the elevator button. A vague memory surfaces, just a few years old really, of this same boy dancing eagerly in front of another elevator in another random building.

"Can I push the button?" he'd asked, all little kid enthusiasm, begging for the permission to perform this simple 'adult' task, or, maybe he just wanted to. It was the asking that was important. "Can I do it? Can I do it, Dean?"

That part of the memory falls awkwardly into place. Sam hadn't even been talking to him, John realizes. Maybe he hadn't even been there.

"He shouldn't be alone," Sam says now, glancing about the hallway as they wait for the elevator. John blinks, realizing he'd been spacing out of the here again. Sam presses the button again and John has an odd sense of lost time and displacement.

"We shouldn't leave him alone," Sam says again. His voice holds equal notes of anger and pleading.

"It's only a little while," John finally manages to reply. "He'll be okay. I've got a few things to take care of."

"I thought we had to sleep," Sam replies surly. Though, John counts it as a small victory when the elevator arrives and Sam follows him obediently into the tiny box. He waits for the doors to ding closed before speaking.

"You can sleep in the car," he says evenly, not looking at his son, but calculating a ten, twelve hour drive in his mind. It'd be easier if Dean could do some of it, but he can't, and that's sort of the point, isn't it? Damn, he just needs to talk to Mary.

"The car?" Sam repeats, confused, and then realizing, he shakes his head. "No," he says, and again louder. "No way. You can't leave." His voice is a little squeaky and extra loud in the tiny elevator. "You can't leave!" he shrieks, small hands in fists.

"Sam," John warns him.

"No! No!"

"Sam."

"What's so important for you to leave now?" he cries. "He can't be alone."

"It's just a day or so. He'll be fine," John replies calmly leaning back against the wall.

"He isn't fine Dad!" Sammy bellows, for once opening his mouth and yelling at full volume. Gone is the quiet, meek boy. The real Sam is much too angry for someone his size. He shakes and shivers and draws in a ragged, wet breath. Lets it back out in a barking, coughing sort of cry. John stares blankly at him, just an arm's length away really, and is still staring when the elevator rumbles to a stop and the doors slide open.

Sam slips quickly out into the hall and through an oblivious waiting room to the exit.

John follows after him, never losing sight of the shaggy brown hair, thinking this is some sort of delayed reaction, grief or fear or something. He remembers Dean, silent and empty, after Mary's death and wonders vaguely who got what from who. He isn't sure how Mary would grieve; in their short time together everything was just ridiculously, almost frighteningly, good. No one was ever sick, no funerals, and no hospitals. Maybe that wasn't real. It doesn't feel real anymore.

Mary would probably be the strong one, he decides.

Out in the parking lot, Sam stands next to the Impala under the streetlamps, just about jumping with unreleased energy. John moves past him to slide in on the driver's side and then reaches over to unlock the passenger door. But Sam makes no move to open it. So John does it for him, stretching to grasp at the handle and shoving the door out.

"Sam. In. Now," he commands. Sam crosses his arms and shakes his head, biting hard on his bottom lip.

"No sir."

"That was an order son, not a question." John watches Sam waver for a moment, taking a step toward the car and then a step back and then he tilts his jaw up and shrugs his shoulders in a perfect imitation of the kind of snotty brat John never wanted to raise.

"So?" he postures.

"So get in the goddamn car!" John roars, slapping the seat with his palm. To Sam's credit, John knows he can be a scary bastard when he's angry, but his son only flinches a little and doesn't lose his anger.

"No!" he yells back, just as loud, like it's the best comeback ever.

"Yes!" John shouts in return.

"I can't leave him alone!"

"We aren't leaving him Sam."

"Yes you are!" Sam shrieks. "You want to leave now! You're always leaving!"

"You better watch it, Sammy," John intones carefully, almost grateful his son is out of reach, away from his own wavering self control.

"You don't even care!" Sam rants on, shaking fists at his sides, bouncing on his toes. "You hate being around us! Even when you're here, you're not really here!"

"Sam," John growls.

"And you don't even care! Dean's sick and you want to leave and you don't even care. He's gonna die and no one will even be there and _you don't even care_!"

"Sam, stop it," John hisses fiercely.

"No! No. You leave. You leave now, just like always." Sam's nearly hysterical now, crying and yelling, scarcely breathing when he grabs the passenger door with both hands and slams it hard enough to rock the entire car. John sits back, startled, holding the steering wheel as Sam disappears and the car calms. Then everything is still and quiet and he is alone.

--------------------


	10. Love and Fear

Spirit Fall, chapter ten

A/N: Thanks to everyone that reviewed last chapter and Boy Blue. I'm surprised to be getting such great feedback from everybody. You're all awesome. Unfortunately, these chapters keep getting shorter. I say what needs to be said and don't even realize the length of it until I'm done. I'll try to update soon though. Much thanks to chocolate rules, my confidence booster. And, hey, I titled the chapters. Just for fun. :)

--------------------

John sits in the car for a full hour before twisting the key to turn over the engine. Mary would never leave their boys alone like this, no matter what. Even twenty-four hours is too long and too much could happen in that space of time. Their circumstances are different, but… he still can't do it. He turns out onto the main road and swings in at the first fast food place he sees to get them some burgers.

He needs to prove Sam wrong. He does care. A lot. More than he wants to sometimes. But his son was right about some things too. As much as it hurts to hear it, it's true. Even when he's with them, his mind is often a million miles away. He's let Dean take care of Sam and himself and all John has had to worry about is hunting.

He hasn't been on a hunt for weeks now. Over a month even. Huh.

John's too driven for his own good most times. He can't even see where people, his kids, should come before the mission. And Sam's too smart. He knows where this life will take them. Specifically, no where good. Dean's sacrificed too much for this family, without hesitation, but there has to be some point where he'll give in. They can't go on like this forever.

He imagines the final fight would involve the three of them, standing in an angry circle, necks extended, screaming full force at the other two: "I can't do this alone!"

And that's the truth. They need to take care of each other, not just watching backs and bandaging wounds, but really caring. The kind of stuff that comes easy to normal families.

Things will change now. No doubt about that. John will be sure of it. It took a possession, leukemia, arson, and an evil spirit to make him realize it. He can only hope now that it won't be too late.

He parks back at the hospital and pauses to say a quick prayer to Mary before going inside. A true man of few words, he always says the same thing, brief but meaningful, and he's sure she gets the message.

'I love you. We miss you. I'm sorry.'

--------------------

John doesn't have to go far to find Sam. He's sitting in the hospital lobby, slumped back in a chair, scuffing his shoes along the floor. John drops the bag of food into his lap wordlessly.

After Dean was born, Mary's father had given John one single piece of advice. As a father, everything you do or say must instill either fear or love. There's no middle ground and you can't be their friend. His own old man had leaned heavily toward the fear side and John had always known he didn't want to be that guy. But eighteen years later, he scarcely knows his kids. Every time they follow an order, he isn't sure maybe Dean does it out of love, but Sam for sure follows him out of fear. That isn't working so well anymore though. So, when your kids don't love you and aren't afraid of you, it must mean that you seriously screwed up somewhere. Probably with all that demon hunting business.

"Thanks," Sam says quietly. John stares down at him, wondering if it's too late. He moves to sit next to his son. Sam pulls a sandwich out of the bag and unwraps it carefully, picking at the bread. "They wouldn't let me back in," he says after a moment. John nods. This hospital is pretty lax about kicking you out, but they won't let you in after hours.

"We'll wait then," John huffs. Sam glances up at his father sharply. He recovers quickly though and nods. He goes back to his food then, eating faster, realizing that his Dad isn't about to start yelling. John watches his son carefully as he eats, for some sign of the argument they just had and as Sam glances up at him again, he realizes, he's doing the same thing. Like watching prey on a hunt, waiting to see who will make the first move, they study each other. Finally, Sam is finished eating and there are no distractions. John sighs and straightens his stiff posture.

"I guess we need to talk Sammy."

Sam continues to watch his father, waiting, always waiting for what will happen next. John leans toward his son and carefully lowers his voice.

"First of all, you ever talk to me like you did out there again and I can't make any promises as to what I might do. Understand?"

Sam nods quietly.

"Yes sir."

_Fear_, John realizes. It makes him a little anxious to see Sam like this now, all the fight gone out of him, but he wagers on anyway. Now, for the hard part. He sits back and clasps his hands in his lap.

"You need to know, Sam, that I'm not going anywhere." He looks over at his son and carefully constructs his next words. "Not until this whole thing is over and your brother is well again. I know I can get a little lost sometimes. You just have to remind me what's important here," he says simply, keeping his voice steady and in check. "And what's important to me is you and Dean. Nothing else comes close. You understand?"

Sam nods again, wide eyed. _Was his father actually admitting wrong?_

John blinks sharply, as suddenly turning off whatever he'd given with those words.

"Okay then," he says, scooting over on the thinly cushionedbench. "Lie down. Just because we're staying here, doesn't mean your not going to sleep." Reluctantly, Sam does just that, the top of his head against his father's thigh.

So, they aren't going anywhere, but all that means, Sam thinks, is that they'll be here when Dean…

"Dad?" he asks. From the corner of his eye, he can see John lift his head away from the wall and stare down at him. Sam looks away. "That ghost? That spirit, he said that Dean was going to, that he was, that this…" He'd thought it so many times and yet he couldn't say it out loud. Thankfully, John interrupts him.

"I know."

"You do?"

"I know what the spirit said, Sam. That doesn't mean I know what's going to happen."

"Oh," Sam blinks, and after a moment, "But he knew about everything else."

"I know," John sighs again, tipping his head back against the wall. Sam props himself anxiously up on an elbow.

"He might've been right about that too, then," he says, sounding so much like his brother right then that John has to blink a few times to clear his eyes. He doesn't offer Sam the same response though. Proof, he thinks, that he knows his kids pretty darn well after all.

"When have you ever known your brother to listen to what some old ghost has to say?" He laughs lightly. "Some spirit says he's going to die, he won't do it. Just out of spite."

Sam smiles a bit.

"Yea," he falters. "But how can you know--"

"Sam. Even predicted futures can be changed. What happens, or what's going to happen, isn't set in stone on some great plan." He pauses. They don't really have conversations like this and he isn't sure how much to give. "Listen, Sammy," he continues slowly. "I like to think there's some order to things, some purpose for everybody, but no set way as to how we get there."

"Masters of our own destinies," Sam intones, lying back down and curling his fists under his chin.

"Yea," John smirks. "Something like that."

Sam doesn't say anything then so he closes his eyes, content that his kids are okay for tonight. The hospital is quiet now and no one bothers them.

"Dad?" Sam asks after a moment.

"Go to sleep," John says, absently rubbing Sam's shoulder.

"I'm sorry."

John pauses.

_Love_.

He can only whisper.

"Me too."

--------------------

In the morning, Dean's doctor finds them before seven a.m. when the dawning light is just beginning to slant through the wide glass front doors. John stands to meet the doctor while Sam sits up behind him.

"What's going on?" he asks urgently. "What's happened?"

The doctor stands there for a moment, staring forlornly at the ever-present chart. A few pieces of paper detailing every up and down of Dean's recent existence right there in his hands.

"Doctor…" John prompts. Sam stands up next to him.

The doctor raises his head then, an amazed smile beginning to creep over his features.

"The fever's broken," he says. "Dean's awake."

--------------------

tbc


	11. Greater Demons

Spirit Fall, chapter eleven

A/N: Firstly, I apologize for the wait. This chapter gave me so much trouble it isn't even funny. Well, yea, okay, some of it was actually funny, but that's not the point. It's done now and most of the next chapter is done and that will be the end. Also, I may have said it before, but I'll just repeat myself in that the technical medical stuff is mostly improvised. There's a reason I changed my major. :) So I'm just going off what I can remember. Hopefully this chapter will wrap up most issues. Please let me know what you think.

P.S. Changed the summary too, cause the old one was making less sense all the time. :)

--------------------

One pair of shining green eyes traced with red and made all the more electric for the contrast are probably the best thing he's ever seen, John decides.

"Hey," Dean blinks up at them casually as they lean in over his bed. "What's up?"

The doctors explained that the infection has cleared out of his lungs and his temperature is down nearer ninety-nine degrees, a great improvement. In fact, such a vast improvement, that they must pause to remind themselves of still greater demons to be wrestled.

You have to enjoy the good as it comes along though, because the bad will always be there, waiting outside the back door, and they know that all too well.

"Hey," Sam smiles back in awe, reaching for the hand Dean offers him. He's alert and talking, but held up only by the support of a few pillows and not making any effort to move.

"How're you doing?" John asks.

"Oh, you know." Dean attempts to gesture with the hand not stabbed with IV's, but finds it death locked in Sammy's grip. "Same old…"

"Dean," John interrupts. "Honesty please."

Dean blinks, perhaps not used to his father actually listening to the words he says.

"Pretty damn shitty."

"That's more like it," John nods amiably and pulls up a chair. "Doc says you're going to be in here for a while now."

"We've stayed in worse," Dean smirks and John is reminded again of the treacherous lifestyle he's imposed on his children and the improvements he has yet to make. Sam sinks onto the edge of the bed.

"I'll bring you some books," he offers. Dean grins.

"Thanks man, but I don't think I'll be doing much reading." He shifts, trying to sit up further against the pillows, and winces. John frowns.

"You okay?" he asks, ready to lean over and help.

"Yea," Dean nods. "Just tired. Tired of being tired. I'm sick of all this," he gestures around the room vaguely. "All this…stuff."

John catches his son's eye and sees a fleeting moment of panic there. With these words, Dean thinks he's admitted too much. And to his credit, John hadn't even stopped to think that Dean would be anything less than pleased with all of this. He always expects him to just shut up and take it and typically that's exactly what Dean would do. But, John can see, he's at the end of his ropes, both physically and emotionally. He wouldn't be admitting so much, so honestly otherwise.

"It's okay," John nods in reassurance. His words are gruff and actions stiff, but he hopes it's at least a little comforting. Something else he'll have to work on.

"Maybe they'll let you go outside later," Sam suggests. "It's really warm, so you won't get sick or anything." It's pure optimism that Dean could possibly be up and about so soon. It's amazing, John considers, how despite everything they've been through Sam has held onto that quality so much. Almost to the point that he's become delusionally optimistic.

"Yea," Dean nods. "Maybe later. I'm just tired now." It's not clear whether he's repeating himself to make a point or because his mind is more than a bit scattered, but considering everything, it's probably the latter. Sam nods dejectedly; reminding John of Dean so many years ago when he'd had to explain that baby Sammy would not be able to play cars with him for quite awhile. It would take time. This would take time.

"Need us to bring you anything?" John asks quietly.

"Some music," Dean smirks under half-lidded eyes. "A good cup of coffee, the rifle, and maybe a nice ghostie to play target practice with."

"Yea, okay," John interrupts before he can list anymore. "I'll see what we can do."

"There's plenty of ghosts floating around a place like this," Sam comments dryly.

"I'll bet," John nods, glancing about the room as if he might be able to see them. Hospitals, for the most part, were a bit like old battlefields, lost souls all over the place. Just another reason why they hate the places.

"Bring 'em on," Dean nods.

"It's going to be awhile before you're hunting anything," John reminds him.

"Nah," Dean replies. "I'm always up for a good fight."

"Well, I think you've got one."

With this, John realizes, they will beat this thing. He'd said it before, but those were just words coming out of his mouth. Now, with Dean awake and ready to fight, he can really _believe_ it.

This cancer thing is _so_ going down.

Dean's a master at dealing with what's he's handed and managing as well as can be done. They haven't come out of anything 'okay' by anyone's definition. They're scarred in more ways than one and outcasts and alone, but they have continued to fight and moved forward. Not given up. That's what matters.

And the reason Dean is okay with all of this, with their life, is because he believes in the cause behind it. He believes in the man behind it. The realization makes John a bit nervous, but backing off now is not an option. It's not like Dean has ever held them up to anyone else's expectations or beliefs or predictions anyway.

Dean had never believed a word of that doomsday death fortune.

"So, what have you guys been up to?" he asks, eyes back open and searching their faces. John ducks his head before anything can be revealed there and Sam shifts awkwardly on the bed.

"Same old stuff," Sam says after a moment. "Sitting around waiting for your lazy head to wake up."

Dean laughs breathlessly.

"Sounds exciting."

"You'd be surprised," Sam nods. John dares glance up then and is surprised to find Sam's eyes on him, staring hard. But, not out of anger, for once, soft and shining, they say '_this is our secret to keep_._'_ John nods, knowing, the kindness isn't meant for him anyway. They couldn't control what had happened or what would happen, but this last transgression of John's could be kept from Dean.

The IV machine next to the bed whirs and clicks. Two bags hang from it and John realizes he hasn't a clue what they might contain, what medicine is being pumped into his son now and with what effects.

Dean works his jaw and blinks heavily.

"Man," he sighs. "I could really use that coffee."

"Doctor said no caffeine," Sam interjects.

"Yea…whatever," Dean breathes. With each blink, his eyes stay shut a moment longer and John reaches over to brush a hand across his forehead.

"Go ahead and sleep," he tells him. "We'll be here."

"Yea," Sam agrees, smiling quietly at his Dad. "We'll be here."

--------------------

A few days later, Dean's blood work is run again. They try not to get their hopes up, as there hasn't been any change yet. They haven't done any further treatment and Dean still sleeps through the better part of most days. Another doctor motions them out into the hall, away from where Dean rests now.

"Yea?" John nods for her to speak.

"I have the results." She smiles sort of sadly.

"And?" He nods again and feels Sam stiffen beside him, waiting. Doctors were always saying too much when you didn't want them to and stuttering when you really wanted to hear something.

"Dean's white blood cell count has dropped significantly."

The air rushes out of John's lungs and he grins.

"That's good, right? That's a good thing?"

"A very good thing," she smiles.

"He's getting better?" Sam asks, needing the confirmation. The doctor nods.

"It's a step in the right direction."

Getting all the reassurance he needs, Sam dodges back into Dean's room and jumps up on the bed, kneeling beside his brother and shaking him awake.

"Dean!" He leans over him. "Hey!"

Dean opens his eyes with some effort, blinking up at his anxious brother.

"You're getting better!" Sam enthuses. "You're getting better."

Dean grins, chapped lips stretching, and closes his eyes again.

"Hell yea, I am."

--------------------

More chemotherapy. More radiation. More of being sick. Two entire days of lying curled in a hospital bed, not moving, barely breathing.

Sam comes into the room, rounds the bed to face Dean who lies on his side and stands in front of him. Still high off the fact of Dean is getting better, _Dean is getting better_, and not noticing the tense lines his shoulders are now or the squint of unopened eyes.

"Dean," he starts excitedly, only pausing when that doesn't get a response. "Dean?"

"I can't…"

Sam's brow furrows at the rough, quiet quality of his brother's voice. He leans closer.

"What?"

"I can't talk to you right now." The words are forced between clenched teeth and barely audible. Sam reaches for Dean's shoulder and hesitates; sensing the amount of energy he is putting into just being _still_. But his eyes still don't open and it makes Sam too nervous to watch.

"Dean?" He rests his hand on his brother's shoulder.

"Don't," Dean bites out between breathes. "Don't touch me."

John enters the room then, just in time to hear those words and see Sam snatch his hand back as if he'd been burned.

"Sorry," Sam stutters. "Sorry." Wide, fearful brown eyes glance up to John where he stands in the doorway. He knows Sam only wants to help his brother, only wants to make this all better, don't they all, but there is a long road to struggle down before they'll get there. Stepping into the room he motions Sam away from Dean, because sometimes, being a family means knowing when to leave each other alone. But mostly, John thinks as he pulls up a chair next to the bed, it's knowing when not to.

--------------------

tbc


	12. Long Overdue

Spirit Fall, Chapter 12

A/N:_ I need to properly organize my thoughts here..._

_-Thanks to everybody that stuck with me while I muddled my way through some kind of plot. Never having written something of such length, I wasn't sure how it was all going to work out, but you were all extremely supportive. Thank you._

_-'Nother big thanks to chocolate rules who betaed the whole darn thing. I would've quit it a while ago without her advice._

_-There's some technical mumbo jumbo in here, while I'm fairly sure it's accurate, don't go quoting it in your next book report or something. :) Couldn't let you all go without learning something. :)_

_-This chapters got a whole lot of dialogue, which is a bit different, I suppose. Also, John's been in every darn scene, but I thought just Sam and Dean needed to talk,so while he is in the scene, he isn't really there. Yea...Just a warning, I'm afraid it may be a bit off pace._

_-Sammy is a weepy, weepy boy. Sometimes, I don't even _want_ him to cry. He just does._

_-I know I can get pretty schmoopy at times myself. Tried to limit the schmoop factor, but it didn't really work. I hope I didn't annoy anyone with the schmoopiness.  
__This would be the serious face, guys. :)_

_-Finally, hopefully, this fic was supposed to show what it would take to make John realize Sam and Dean come before the hunt. If it hasn't done that, hopefully you have been at least mildly amused throughout. :) Read on..._

_--------------------_

Living is kinetic. It's rolling highways, a boot on the gas pedal, mostly nowhere, blurring towns, in and out, dead(er) things in their wake. It's swinging fists, loud words, a shaky finger on the trigger, instinct, action, anger, rage, and revenge. Don't think. Don't hesitate. Don't slow down. Don't stop.

But now all of it, every last second, hangs on a number.

"I would have preferred zombies," Sam states matter of factly.

"You _hate_ zombies," Dean reminds him. "_I_ hate zombies. They're the worst."

"Still," Sam shrugs. "I'd have preferred them."

"To a little needle?"

"Dean, it was a_ big_ needle." Sam gestures with his hands.

"Whatever dude. Welcome to my life." Dean holds up an arm, displaying track marks and two needles still taped under the skin. "I look like a freakin' druggie."

"Well, with any luck the transplant won't be necessary," John interrupts.

"With any luck," Sam repeats.

"Yea, cause that's something we're really known for," Dean deadpans. "Our awesomely good luck."

"Dean, you should really be more optimistic." Sam reminds him with a patronizing grin

"Dad," Dean moans, turning to see his father. "This kid and I are from different planets. How the heck do they expect our _bones_ to match up?"

"It's not the bone, it's the marrow," Sam interjects. "That's the spongy insides of the bone where--"

"Sammy?" Dean flops back into his pillows and throws a dramatic arm over his eyes.

"Yea?"

"Please shut up now."

"Okay," Sam nods.

John smiles.

_--------------------_

The number of white blood cells per total blood volume. In leukemia patients these cells divide abnormally, crowding out the healthy cells and rendering them functionless. To be considered in remission, a patient must attain a normal white blood cell count.

In a healthy person, this number is near 10,000 cells per mm3.

In Dean, this number is free falling, a wild dive toward health.

_--------------------_

"So, can we get out of here yet?" Dean asks from the bed. He pulls at the neck of the patient issue shirt. "I'm tired of wearing the same thing everyday."

"No," John shakes his head. Of course Dean would cite a trivial reason to want to leave the hospital. "Not until you're better."

"I'll be better when I can get out of here."

"Well, you can get out of here when you're better."

"That didn't even make sense."

"Dean," John quiets him sternly. Dean shifts anxiously.

"I feel better."

"That's good," John nods. Fact is, Dean is getting better, everyday, would probably get out of the hospital in a week or so. But as it is, he's still stuck in a bed and as he recovers, John's visits had become less the silent vigil and more and more a test of his patience.

"Where's Sam?" Dean asks abruptly.

"Library. Research," John answers shortly.

"A hunt?" Dean perks up.

"No. No hunting right now."

"He's just there again?"

"Yes."

"For no reason?"

John nods in response, tired of talking, and picks up a newspaper from the bedside table.

"They'd ought to just let him move in," Dean rambles on. "Pitch a tent right between the sections on 'brain surgery' and 'rocket science.'"

"Smart kid," John remarks vaguely. "Likes to learn."

"When's school start back?" Dean asks, leaning back against the pillows. John glances at him over the weather page. Dean had been a bit scattered lately, more so than usual anyway, but John had thought he at least knew what month it was.

"It's been back."

"Oh," Dean frowns, surprised. "Sam's…not going?"

"He'll catch up."

"Shouldn't have to," Dean remarks quietly. John pauses.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Dean shrugs evasively.

"We've been in this town for awhile. You're not hunting. There's no reason he couldn't have been in school."

John stares at Dean pointedly.

"What?" Dean shrugs.

John shakes his head, smirking as he returns to his paper.

"It's hard always being behind like that," Dean goes on, oblivious. "Always trying to catch up. He's better than that."

"Yea, well," John sighs and folds the paper away. "Aren't we all."

_--------------------_

"A perfect match," the doctor beams up at John.

"No kidding?"

"Nope," she smiles and hands him a few sheets of test results, numbers and letters that don't make any more sense than Greek.

"Yea," he nods, looking up from the jumble on the paper. "I see."

"Lucky," she grins. He shifts awkwardly and forces a polite smile.

"That's what they keep telling us."

"Even though it won't be necessary, Dean's recovering amazingly on his own, it's nice to know that we have the option of bone marrow transplant with your other son if it's ever needed," she pauses. "They have the same mother then?"

"Yes," John frowns at her prying. "Of course."

"Sorry, none of my business. But they sure don't look alike."

"Yea, um," John purses his lips, not knowing why he feels the need to explain. "Dean…looks like his mother. Sam takes after, after…me."

The doctor nods amiably, unaware of his discomfort.

"I can see that. It's still something though. A perfect match," she shrugs and shifts her papers, preparing to walk away. "Doesn't happen very often."

--------------------

"Are you warm enough?"

"Yes."

"Comfortable?"

"Yea."

"Hungry?"

"_No_."

"Thirsty?"

"No!"

A pause.

"Do you need a blanket?"

"No, Sam," Dean snaps. "I do not need a blankie. I don't need anything. I'm good, okay? This is good."

Sam frowns, but nods compliantly.

"Okay." He settles back onto the park bench and squints up at the sun, so bright it makes his hair go shiny and auburn in places. The hospital garden is composed of a winding, paved path between plots of water-starved flowers and shrubs. They sit along one of these paths, Sam on a bench and Dean in a wheelchair, too accustomed to that fact by now to complain anymore. John paces, a few plots away, frowning and muttering into his cell phone.

"Who do you think he's talking too?" Sam asks. Dean shrugs and smirks.

"Probably the truancy officer. Trying to explain why you haven't been in school. Trying to convince him not to take you away."

Sam turns to him with wide eyes.

"Really?"

_"No._ Sam, geez. It's probably Jim or somebody."

Sam frowns and shifts away from him.

"Why'd you say that?"

"I don't know," Dean shrugs. "I just did. It was a joke. Chill out."

"Wasn't funny."

"Sorry," Dean returns, but Sam doesn't look at him. "Dude, are you mad at me now?"

"No," Sam replies too quickly.

"I said I was sorry. It was a bad joke. I got it."

"That's not it," Sam says, eyes following their father's path through the flowers, back and forth, like a tennis game. Dean shifts in the chair, rolling a bit out into the path.

"Well, what is it then? The brain's been scrambled more than a few times, Sammy," Dean says, gesturing at his head. "You've got to spell this stuff out for me."

"It's just," Sam shrugs and squirms. "Other stuff. You know."

"No, I really don't." Dean watches his brother in earnest, waiting for an answer, but then Sam looks away and sniffles. "Aw, man, Sammy," Dean moans. "Are you going to cry? Didn't Dad give you that talk?"

"No," Sam says again, too quickly and too quietly. Still watching John with eyes becoming red now as the tiniest blood vessels burst. Dean huffs and rolls closer, resting one cool hand on the back of Sam's neck.

"Okay, what's the problem? Tell me now, cause I'm not asking again." It's not a threat, but a way to get Sam to talk. And it works.

"It's just, you, um," he stutters and coughs. "You…"

"Me?"

"No…yea."

"Sammy, you're killing me here."

At this, Sam lets out a harsh sort of laugh and smiles watery through his tears.

"I just want you to be okay," he spits out, voice wavering near the end and he scrubs at his eyes. Dean sits back, relieved, and spares a glance at John.

"That's all?"

Sam shrugs and nods.

"Sam, I'm going to be fine."

"I know that, it's just…I need…Dad's not good at some stuff, and you…I just want…I just want you to be okay," he finishes weakly.

"Sammy," Dean wavers, forming his words. "You're smart, you know this stuff doesn't just go away and that sucks. It really, really sucks, but I promise you it will be okay. No matter what."

Sam nods minutely, meeting his eyes.

"Okay."

"They tell you how we've got the same bones?" Dean asks abruptly. Sam rolls puffy eyes.

"It's not the bone, Dean, it's the marrow."

"Yea, yea, I know. I'm just saying, it's kind of hard to believe, but I guess we're made up of the same stuff after all."

Sam pauses and glances at him, scrunching his face up in the sun.

"Was that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Yea," Dean drawls. "Did it work?"

Sam nods easily and shrugs, wipes his face off again. "Pretty much," he says, holding onto the bench beneath him. Dean leans forward suspiciously.

"You're not still hung up on what that spirit guy said, are you?"

"No way."

"Good, cause spirits don't run our lives."

"We _ruin_ theirs," Sam grins.

"Hell yea," Dean nods, leaning back in the wheelchair and closing his eyes for a moment. John's voice can be heard moving closer, mumbled thanks and goodbye and then the click of the phone being closed.

"That was Jim," he says, suddenly right in front of them on the path. Dean sits up straighter.

"Something--"

"No," John cuts him off sternly. "I told him we're not hunting right now. He didn't know about," he gestures toward Dean and clears his throat. "Anyway, he said they'd dedicate the morning mass to you tomorrow."

"Did you warn him the church might get struck by lightening?" Sam asks jokingly. Dean makes a noise of protest while John, ignoring them, leans closer to Sam, just noticing the reddened eyes.

"Everything okay?" he asks, glancing sideways toward Dean. Dean grins.

"Yes sir. Just fine."

_----------------------_

A week later, John enters Dean's room with Sam at his side and a set of clothing in hand. Dean's jumping out of the bed before anyone say's a word.

"I'm out of here," he says excitedly, reaching for the clothes his father holds.

"Hang on a second," John interrupts, moving his hands out of reach, he waits for Dean to focus on him. "Just…slow down, okay?"

Dean pauses and nods.

"Take it easy."

"Yes sir."

"Okay," John hands him the jeans and over shirt and Dean disappears into the bathroom. He's back out a moment later and while the thick shirt covers the sharp angles of bones, there's no hiding the fact that he has to hold up the jeans with one hand. He laughs hesitantly.

"I, uh, I think you brought me some of your stuff Dad."

It's a glaring reminder that this is far from over and that this won't be over for a long time. One day at a time though, he's come to realize it's the best and only way to survive.

"Here." Sam pulls off his own belt, doesn't really need it anyway, and hands it to his brother.

"Thanks," Dean replies humbly.

"One other thing," Sam grins and reaches under the bed, pulling out the old, battered cowboy hat. He holds it out.

"Thanks man," Dean laughs, about to place the hat on his head. John frowns and shakes his head.

"Not inside." He'd let it slide before, but they had to get back to basics. Back to normal, or at least, their own modified brand of normal.

"Right," Dean nods. "Sorry."

A nurse appears at the door then, wheelchair in tow.

"Ready to go?" she asks.

"What, are you kidding?" Dean replies. John helps him into a jacket while Sam gathers his things and they head for the door, not bothering to glance back into the room.

Dean drops unceremoniously into the chair and points sharply down the hall.

"Sixth gear, please ma'am. I'm going home."

Sam laughs while the nurse rolls her eyes.

"Dean," John reminds him quietly. His son turns in the chair to grin up at him as they move toward the elevator.

"I said please."

"I know."

"I said ma'am."

"I _know_."

Dean raises a questioning eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.

"Just…chill out," John fumbles, irrationally concerned with Dean's health outside of the hospital. He had to stay calm, not tire himself out.

"Hey Sammy," Dean laughs as they enter the elevator. "Dad just told me to _chill_."

Or not.

Sam laughs quietly and John sees the nurse put a muffling hand over her own mouth. He shakes his head. It really is a lost cause.

The elevator doors ding open, no angry marches outside, no harsh words, they step out as a family.

"What are we going to do now?" Dean asks.

"Not sure yet," John shrugs. "I figured we'd take it easy for awhile." Dean glances up at him suspiciously.

"Easy? _How_ easy?"

"I don't know. A vacation, maybe."

"The beach," Sam jumps in excitedly.

"The mountains," Dean grins slowly.

"Somewhere," John shrugs.

The nurse pauses by the front doors.

"You have all of your discharge instructions?" she asks. "Appointment dates? Prescriptions?"

"Yes ma'am," John nods.

"Okay then." She moves to help Dean out of the chair, but he shrugs off her hands, straightening sturdy legs and taking his hat from Sam.

"I'm good," he says and John can tell it's the truth. The nurse nods, retreating back into the hospital with a small wave.

"Good luck."

"Thanks," they wave.

They cross through the door and onto the sidewalk, warmed under their shoes by the late evening sun. Across the parking lot, and out in the desert, the sun is settling on the horizon. The sky is on fire with orange and pink streaks, tearing across the landscape and blurring into the dusty earth. This, the perfect time of day, when the line between sky and ground isn't visible. Heaven is only a small step away from earth and angels can cross over freely. This, the perfect time of day, when spirits can fall, down and up.

Dean steps forward, a silhouette, positioning the hat on his head.

"Free at last," he smiles and spreads his arms wide to the sky.

It isn't any kind of invitation, but a father shouldn't need one.

John moves in and wraps warm, comforting arms tight around his son in a long past overdue hug.

_--------------------_

_end_


End file.
